


Smells Like Teen Spirit

by apersonwhowrites



Series: the surprisingly unsurprising life of one bonnie bennett [1]
Category: The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:35:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 101,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26097967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apersonwhowrites/pseuds/apersonwhowrites
Summary: Play stupid games and win stupid prizes.Usually, Bonnie Bennett stays far away from trouble. She's the perfect friend, student, and daughter. Willing to do whatever to keep those she loves happy and stress-free. But it's getting old and Bonnie feels like she's losing herself - and she doesn't know how to stop it.Until she gets an opportunity to forget about what everybody else thinks - thanks to an unlikely ally.Damon Salvatore is a walking nightmare. Rude, sarcastic, and careless. Bonnie's never liked him, choosing to hold him accountable for his mistakes - unlike most people who interact with him. But after they find themselves in similar situations, they decide to set aside their differences in order to make the best out of what would otherwise be a horrible vacation.After one careless night, they find themselves in a horrible situation without a clear solution. It's then that Bonnie is forced to re-evaluate what it is that she wants and who really loves her enough to stand by her side. She once thought she knew the answers to those questions, but she's beginning to realize that "thoughts" and "reality" don't always match up.
Relationships: Bonnie Bennett/Damon Salvatore, Caroline Forbes/Tyler Lockwood, Elena Gilbert/Stefan Salvatore
Series: the surprisingly unsurprising life of one bonnie bennett [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1906600
Comments: 5
Kudos: 31





	1. Foreword

* * *

**~Foreword~**

* * *

_Hello everybody! I've done something a little weird with this series—but hopefully, it improves this story as well as the sequel. I got a bit stuck writing Come As You Are and—on top of the issues I had personally with my writing, which I explained in greater detail on the note I left on the next chapter, I decided to re-work both stories (once more) to make the story more realistic. Some parts are completely different, but I did keep some of the original sections of writing, too. I think overall, it will create a better plot. It's also longer than the first draft._

_Another piece of news is that I've made progress on Mens Rea (which will be completed in a week or two) and I've picked up Sacrificial Lamb and altered it so it is now a story of three chapters with more of a focus to it. Finally, I am beginning to work on a story based upon season 6 with my own twists._

_I just wanted to close this note by saying I am very happy that so many people enjoyed my writing—I fell out of the habit when some personal issues came up and I've realized that this helps ease the monotony brought on by the pandemic, which has compounded some other hardships I faced. So, once again, I want to say thank you for taking the time to read my works (the old and the improved) and I appreciate all the support I've received so far!_

_And for those that preferred the first draft—no worries, I'm going to keep it posted under an altered title—the same will be done with the first part of Come As You Are. When they are re-posted, I will tell everyone where they can be found._

_I hope everyone stays safe in these difficult circumstances._

_Happy reading!_


	2. Prologue: Crash Into Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended.
> 
> So, as you can probably tell, I'm going nuts being stuck at home for most of this pandemic. I began to write this story when I was in a much different headspace and I recently completed it on ff.net, but while I like how it turned out, I don't love it. I feel I've grown and matured as a writer and person, and due to the large gap between its start and completion, I think it is a bit disjointed. Which brings me here… with a redone (and finished) version of Smells Like Teen Spirit. The basic plot is the same, but the structure and pacing is improved (at least, I think it is). I also think it flows better… but that's just me. I'm a weird combination of impatient and critical. By the time I've written an update, I'm anxious to post it. This causes me to miss mistakes in my editing process, so I approached my re-write in a much more methodical way. I hope you enjoy my redux! Thanks for reading—again!

* * *

**~Prologue~**

* * *

" _You're a mess, I confess, I despise you in the best kind of way."_

_~Jamie Weise~_

* * *

I'd rather be anywhere but here.

In the backseat of my mother's red minivan, next to a cooler filled with cans of soda and ham and cheese sandwiches; boxed in by a pile of bulky suitcases and duffle bags. I'm squished, tired, and bored. My father drives like a snail. We've had to stop at every traffic light we have encountered in the last forty minutes.

And my mother has decided to fill the empty silence with her own rendition of every song on her Whitney Houston playlist. The music itself isn't bad—I actually like most of the tracks—but Abby can't carry a tune to save her life.

And while my dad thinks her off-key crooning is endearing, I find it torturous. It's made worse because I don't have anyone to commiserate with. Usually, Elena is sitting beside me, trying to stifle her giggles—not at the caliber of musical talent, but at the pained expressions on my face. Then, after two songs, she strikes up a conversation with my parents.

And I'm free to just… _think_.

About everything I will have to do upon our return to Mystic Falls. Back-to-school preparations, volunteer work at the children's hospital, ransacking the frozen foods aisle at the supermarket, enjoying the quiet.

Abby and Rudy will return to work and I will once again be in charge of my own schedule. The last two weeks in July are Mom and Dad's designated vacation time, which also makes it the only fourteen days they aren't focused on their careers.

Sure, it's the only guaranteed time I might be the center of attention, but I'd much rather they pretend I'm not there. It's what they do the other fifty weeks of the year, give or take a holiday.

Once I reached a suitable age, I became Grams' responsibility. When she passed away, I had to quickly learn how to fend for myself. In the Bennett family, mourning periods only last seventy-two. After that, you are expected to buck up and carry on as if nothing happened.

Denial is the best medicine.

I tilt my head back and close my eyes. I wonder what Elena is up to right now. Probably enjoying the high-end boutiques in Beverly Hills with Caroline (the other member of our trio). Bill Forbes moved to California with his husband, Jackson, earlier this year and Care hadn't been pleased about all the sudden changes in her life. Finding out her father had been planning on marrying his boyfriend a year after he divorced Liz Forbes, the cross-country geography change… Caroline had no control over any of this and it drove her nuts.

Then she learned _where_ they would be residing, and she perked up. My blonde-haired best friend is nothing if not an opportunist.

She had asked us both to tag-along, but I declined. As much as I don't want to be here, I can't bring myself to let my parents down. It isn't fair to bail on them last-minute. And somehow, I don't think I'll be missed too much.

Sometimes, it's painfully obvious that I'm the odd one out. At the mall, on the cheerleading squad, our monthly sleepovers, too. The hot topic always seemed to involve their love lives. They were both outgoing, though Care is the bubbliest one, and guys _constantly_ drooled over them.

Me? Not so much.

Sure, part of me wants to have something to add to the conversation. If I weren't so focused on maintaining my 4.0 GPA, I might have time for a boyfriend. The quintessential teen-romance. But, no matter what I do, it just doesn't seem to fit in with my goals.

That, and displays of affection aren't my forte—I feel hopelessly awkward just standing next to Elena when her boyfriend is around.

I blame my perspective of romance on my mother and father. When they aren't swamped with paperwork and deadlines, they are in their bedroom, screwing each other's brains out as if I can't hear them.

I'm positive that losing sleep because your parents fuck on a nightly basis is a leading cause of childhood complexes.

I am forced to set my resentment aside when Dad pulls into the driveway of our beach house. A quaint little cottage, with a tiny front porch and a welcome mat that is designed to look like someone, wrote it in the sand. Everything—from the outside in—is covered in puns about the beach. A flag with a palm tree printed on it flutters in the wind. The sign proclaiming _sun, sand, and sea that way_ (which is unironically shaped like an arrow) is not actually pointing in the right direction.

A flaw that irritates my penchant for accuracy, though Grams used to say it was a mistake not worth correcting. I still wish I could see it that way, but it doesn't make sense. It isn't true, so why pretend? Why spread false information?

 _Because it's just easier that way,_ a voice in the back of my head whispers. And before I even have the opportunity to get out of the car, my dad tosses the keys at me, without checking to see if I was prepared for it in any way.

"Go unlock the door," he instructs, wrapping an arm around his wife's shoulder. She looks at him lovingly.

I am silent as I stomp up the walkway. I'll be damned if I have to pretend to act happy that my absence gives them a few minutes to make-out in the car.

When I enter the house, leaving the red front door ajar, I flick on the lights.

This place never seems to change. I like it that way—it's reliable, and I can count on it to look exactly as we left it last year: light blue walls, wicker furniture, mirror hanging in the foyer, knickknacks lined up on the mantel. This was my favorite place to be as a child. It's where everyone made an effort to be together and it was _perfect._

Now it just feels like purgatory.

My moment of solitude is disrupted by the arrival of my parents, who have managed to grab all of our belongings in their arms and lug them into the house in a single trip. I am seriously contemplating running to my bedroom for the duration of our stay, but Dad has already made plans for us.

"Get your swimsuit, Bonnie. It's time to go to the beach!"

I glance at the clock sitting on the nearest shelf. "It's only ten, Dad. We just got here."

"I can tell time, kiddo," he chuckles. "But every day in paradise counts!"

"… you know, that's a good point." I take my bag from his hand. "I'll be ready in a few."

Mom's face lights up, green eyes shining. It's the same look Grams often had when she was pleased, or proud, or giving me advice. Those eyes bring me back to simpler times. So, instead of acting like a moody seventeen-year-old, I smile.

It feels authentic, if only for a second. And I tell myself that things might not be as awful as they seem. This vacation might actually be fun. I just need to let go of my expectations.

Who knows? It may be nice to not worry about what I'm _supposed_ to do for once.

_~~X~~_

My dad had been right about one thing.

It's a wonderful day to be here. A light breeze takes away from what would normally be a stifling degree of heat. When it stops, I find myself wishing for its return. Beads of sweat form on my brows, arms, stomach, and legs. I can taste the salt in the air, feel the sun beating down on my head of black hair. The beach is only moderately crowded, the sand dotted with umbrellas, beach chairs, and brightly colored towels. Kids are running around, laughing and carrying shovels and pails, building poorly designed castles, and squealing in excitement as the water laps at their ankles.

We've only been here for five minutes, and already Rudy and Abby have disappeared. I'm not shocked or sad or even disappointed, at least I can read my book without interruption.

I drop my bag and plop down on my purple-and-blue beach towel. I waste no time in immersing myself in the literary classic that's been sitting on my bookshelf for months. Reading allows me to be somewhere else… worry about somebody else's problems for a change.

"Bonnie!"

I lift my eyes from the page. Standing in front of me is Stefan Salvatore—Elena's boyfriend—dressed in nothing but a very flattering bathing suit.

"Hey Stef," I greet. "Elena didn't tell me you would be here! What's up?”

"Trying to entertain Damon," he answers with a laugh. "He broke up with Rose last week. I think it's given him too much time to be alone. He gets cranky when he's bored."

I raise an eyebrow. "Really? And here I thought someone so _amazingly sexy_ would have no problem finding another girl to keep him entertained."

"So, you finally admit it! You think I'm sexy!"

 _Speak of the Devil…_ "Maybe if you and I were the only ones on the beach… wait, no, not even then."

Damon walks over to us, bringing with him an air of arrogance that is totally underserved. He's dressed like his younger brother. A pair of boardshorts hanging low on his hips, no shirt, and Ray-Bans perched on his nose.

Of all the places I would expect to see the elder Salvatore brother, Virginia Beach is one of the last ones on my list. The only vacation destination I would expect to find him in is one where drunk co-eds frequented.

" _Ouch._ That hurts, Bon Bon. I thought we moved past the immature insults." Cue his typical shit-eating grin and charming smile.

I look down at my book. Man, I would love to throw it at his smug face, but I don't feel like wasting fifteen dollars on him. Chances are, if I actually hit my target, he will turn around and toss it into the ocean.

He's just that much of an asshole.

"Go away, Damon."

"You know, Bonnie, if you keep being mean to me, I might start to think you have a crush on me."

I roll my eyes, slamming my book shut. "Get real, Salvatore. Hell hasn't frozen over yet."

"Good," he says and his eyes gleam deviously. "I wouldn't want you to catch cold, _sweetheart."_

"Fuck off," I say through gritted teeth. My fist clench and I can feel myself growing even more frustrated, a fire burning in my stomach. One that Damon has poured gasoline over.

God, I'd give just about anything to wipe that smug expression off his face.

"Will do."

* * *

_~Wednesday~_

* * *

I think I'm going to give up on this whole "have fun with the family plan."

My mom and dad haven't been all that interested in the board games I suggested we play or the movies I put on the television after dinner. The disappointments outnumber the positives and I'm left to pretend like I don't care. Mom and Dad have ignored me, choosing to take advantage of his new Viagra prescription instead. Same story, different day. Elena bailed on our usual plans at the last minute, despite having been asked about traveling with Care when we returned from winter break. So what?

Everything might have been easier to deal with if Damon wasn't constantly ruining the only moments of relaxation I've been able to get.

I debate on finding a new spot on the sand when I see that he has decided to bring his own chair and umbrella today. Things that he stations only centimeters from where I'd been lounging since Monday.

But I _refuse_ to surrender. He would see that as another win, one more point for Salvatore, and I cannot allow that. I've got to remain above his antics.

I drag my chair directly next to his, so close that our arms are touching, and smirk.

Damon will not get the best of me. Not today. He's only doing this to get under my skin. He is notorious for always knowing which buttons to press. That's how he gets all of his girlfriends. It's a method that is nearly perfect: compliments, charming smiles, and sex appeal. Damon says what _they_ want to hear, and they give him what _he_ wants. Lather, rinse, repeat. Those tactics even work on me, except it's an inverse equation: bad attitude, a few asshole remarks, and pure joy when I react negatively.

Not anymore. Two can play that game.

"Bonster, I was wondering when you would get here…"

I retrieve my book from my tote, prop my sunglasses atop my head, and open to a random page.

No acknowledgment. _He's not here… just act like you don't see him…_

"How was your night?" he prattles on as if I had answered him. "Mine was great, thanks for asking. I met a girl named Sage. We hit it off and… oh, look—here come your parents."

He lifts his arm over his head and waves.

My head snaps up. Sure enough, my parents are taking a stroll. Their fingers are intertwined, arms swinging back-and-forth. Smiling, laughing. _At least_ they're _having a good time…_ and that somehow makes me feel like I've done something important.

Though, I'm not entirely sure why that is.

My mother looks delighted when she sees that I'm with Damon as if she doesn't need to worry now that I’ve found someone to hang out with. Having a friend means she doesn't have to feel guilty about me being lonely without Elena. She can continue her honeymoon with Dad as if I'm not here with them.

How quickly she forgets that he pushed me off the jungle gym in kindergarten.

"Mr. and Mrs. Bennett—what a surprise to see you here!"

That's it—I'm calling it: Damon Salvatore is a sociopath. The way he's able to change gears so quickly is unnatural. I've never seen someone go from acting condescending to polite in under a minute. Not as convincingly as he does. If I didn't know better, I might have believed that he's the perfect gentleman he is portraying.

"Damon, nice to see you." My dad offers Damon his hand.

"You two seem to be enjoying yourselves," Mom remarks, an obvious note of relief in her voice.

 _Yeah, sure._ If I had known he'd be here, I would have _definitely_ put my foot down. I'd have stayed home. No way would I willingly choose to be anywhere near this asshole.

And then Abby and Rudy exchange _a look_. There is no mistaking what it means, either. They are eager to run off and find somewhere to be alone, like a pair of horny teenagers. I wouldn't be surprised if I have to walk home by myself tonight. Something tells me they will already be at the house.

"Well, we'll let you two catch up," Mom says after an uncomfortable silence.

Damon watches with a smug expression as my parents walk away. "You know, your parents are so cute together… how can you stand it?"

"I can't."

"You seem extra grumpy today, Bon Bon. Is it because you're allergic to having fun?"

"I'm allergic to you," I snip, turning back to the page I had been reading.

"…I've got it! You're pissed off because of your parent's active sex life! I bet that's why you are such an uptight prude, too. You're so innocent you can't even handle simple biology."

"Can you please just _shut the fuck up?"_ I slam my book closed, seething.

"Why would I do that? I have way too much fun getting you all riled up."

"Don't you have a family to piss off? Do you think I _like_ that you're _constantly_ up _my_ butt?"

His eyebrow quirks up. "Well, no one else has complained about it. I never thought _you'd_ be into that kind of thing, though. But you sound excited Methinks the lady doth protest too loudly."

" _Damon!"_ I spring out of my chair. My sunglasses fall off my head and land in the sand, which only adds to my frustration. _"Seriously! Why are you here?"_

"Because—shockingly—you're the best option I have right now. Saint Stefan's texting Elena and my dad is all over his new gold digger—I think she wants him to finance her boob job. Don't get me wrong, I'd still rather cut my own tongue out than spend time with you, but I forgot to bring a knife with me."

"That doesn't tell me _why_ you came to the beach. You hate it here."

"My dad bought a new beach house. For his girlfriend of course, but he so kindly decided we could come with them. I didn't exactly have a choice."

That's a lie. Damon doesn't respond well to being ordered around. Bitterness flashes in his pretty blue eyes, making me feel bad. For Mr. Salvatore, that is. I don't care about Damon… but that doesn't mean his dad deserves to be used for his wealth.

The anger drains out of me slowly, like a deflating balloon. "That sucks…"

"Tell me about it," he mutters. "She's only his sixth girlfriend this year, though, so he thinks they are _soulmates."_

"I wouldn't be okay with that either."

"It's not like I _care_ or anything—I just don't want to watch it. It's pathetic. And I don’t want to be associated with that. So… you can laugh at me now, I'm sure you find this vindicating."

"Damon, I understand.'

"Yeah, whatever. You're 'little miss perfect,' at least your dad trusts you. At least he doesn't hate you… I'm just the family fuck up."

"Damon…"

He glares at me, not answering.

I drop back into my chair. "I… get why you'd… want to hang with me…" I continue awkwardly. "I've been on my own, too… and I could use the company."

 _What the fuck am I doing?_ Subjecting myself to more torment, I'm sure, but at the moment that's the least of my concerns.

"You _do_ look pretty pathetic," he agrees, though his tone doesn't sound malicious. It's lighter and I can easily tell that he doesn't mean it. "At least we can be pathetic together."

"Sounds good to me. You've already been more fun than my mom and dad—and I hate you."

"Yeah, ditto," he replies, pausing for a second. "I never thought I'd say this, but you want to go to a party on Friday?"

I hesitate. Parties aren't really my thing. However, it's not like I have anything better to do. I look at the ocean and then at the glasses wedged in the sand. "Sure, why not?"

* * *

_~Friday~_

* * *

I hate to admit it, but Damon is actually _fun._

We've been nearly inseparable the past few days. With Stefan brooding over being away from the love of his life and our parents collectively too busy to keep tabs on us, we've had very little supervision. Granted, neither of us really interact with our families normally, but it feels different now.

Bending the rules with Damon is _thrilling._ I won't get in trouble. I have a pretty good track record with responsibility as far as Mom and Dad are concerned, which means they can go about their business without fear of something bad happening to me.

But that doesn't matter. I never realized stepping out of my comfort zone would be so _freeing_.

In a way, I feel like Cinderella. It's stupid and silly, but I know I'll fall right back into my role of the trustworthy, strait-laced academic after next week. I'm planning on applying to several Ivy League colleges, which will require all my time and dedication. Schoolwork, cheerleading, and volunteer hours. I will have little opportunity to eat or sleep when my senior year begins.

So, I need to enjoy the moments I have now. When the clock strikes twelve, this new Bonnie will be gone, and it would be nice to have some memories to hang onto.

I sit back on my bed and look at the outfits I've laid out. For some odd reason, I want to look not like myself. Caroline says I dress like a hippie, which is totally untrue. I prefer to call my style _modern boho,_ and she always replies, _"more like modern_ boring."

I end up dressing in a gray, strapless maxi dress that I wouldn't ordinarily wear. It's a little low-cut for my taste, but I decide that it is just what I'm looking for. I'm also a little happy that I finally have _some_ use for something Caroline picked out for me. She'd be proud.

 _Too bad she won't know;_ I think as I put my sandals on. I smile to myself. The thought of Care and Elena asking for details they will never get makes me giddy. A rush of excitement ripples through me as I hear Damon knocking on the door.

"Hey Bonster," Damon says. And then he smirks. "You look good."

"Thanks," I reply dryly. He sounds odd, speaking in a tone that sounds like a mix of awe and sarcasm. I'm wondering if I should be flattered or insulted when he goes on.

"The yellow bikini is still my favorite, though."

"Shut up, Salvatore."

"Is that what you're going to say to all of the guys who ogle you at the party?" He asks as he unlocks his Camaro.

I used to think it was lame and annoying when Damon drove to school; because everyone thinks he's so _cool_ because he owns a vintage car. And, having taken several rides in it, I now find myself reluctantly agreeing with my classmates.

"Guys _do not_ ogle me."

"Well not after you start talking," Damon quips. "Your nickname is Buzzkill Bennett for a reason."

"I'm not a buzzkill!" I protest, slamming his car door shut.

"Prove it, then." He challenges.

"I will."

As much as I will deny it later, if anyone ever finds out, what happens next is all my idea. We skip the college party that random girl—Sage—invited him to. Instead, we go to his dad's brand-new beachfront property. It's the largest home on the block, with a balcony large enough to fit a small table and chairs. Seafoam green siding and white trimming. Anchor adorning the door.A noticeably empty driveway.

"They're at dinner. All three of them." Damon supplies. "Then they will probably spend the rest of the night on the boardwalk."

"Perfect."

"So… what's so rebellious about this?" he asks, clearly skeptical. "What are we going to do? Watch a stupid movie?"

" _No,"_ I reply pointedly. "We are going to raid your dad's liquor cabinet."

"Have you ever had anything stronger than a Shirley Temple?"

"Yes, I drank wine at a sleepover with Care and Elena."

"I stand corrected," he says sarcastically. "You're _such a badass_. I won't be able to keep up with you."

I roll my eyes. "Stop being an ass and let's go."

When we are inside, we go straight to where all the alcoholic beverages are stored. I seriously underestimated the selection we would have. The shelves are lined with red wines, several brands of vodka, rums, wine coolers, and bourbon—Damon's drink of choice. I had been a bit worried Mr. Salvatore would notice a missing bottle, but there are so many of them we could take several without leaving an obvious open space.

I settle on two different brands. "So, I'm going to go with these. Let's go to your room."

I can tell this suggestion actually surprises him. "Excuse me?"

"Well, we don't want to be in the middle of the living room if everyone comes home early."

"You don't have to lie. Plenty of girls want to go to my bedroom, Bon Bon."

"I'm not lying Damon, you're not as hot as you seem to think you are."

"Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night," he says, and I can tell that I haven't knocked his ego down a peg. I'm beginning to think nothing will.

Ignoring him, I grab the bourbon, holding the bottles by the neck as we make our way to the upper level of the house, where all of the bedrooms are located. Damon's is the last door on the right, a moderate distance from the other rooms. I wonder who chose the sleeping arrangements—Damon or Mr. Salvatore.

His bedroom says nothing about him. _Understandable,_ I reason. The house is brand-new. However, all of the things he brought with him are on the left side of the room. A duffle bag, presumably filled with clothes, lays on the floor of the closet. Sunscreen and deodorant sit atop a tiny dresser. Everything else is white—the paint on the walls, the furniture, the blinds on the window. This space could belong to anyone, and for some reason, I don't like it.

"You can sit anywhere you want," he sets the bottles on the nightstand and sinks to the floor, his back pressed against the side of his queen-sized bed. I immediately sit down next to him and nudge him to get the bourbon, which he does without a word.

At first, I drink just to say that Damon is wrong, and then I drink because I'm having a good time. The alcohol makes my head fuzzy, but it's not unpleasant. I feel great, looser like I'm on top of the world. Damon seems happier as well and despite my tipsiness, I know that he is inebriated as well.

Objectively, I could see why every girl at school is attracted to him. His eyes are this mesmerizing shade of blue, his dark brown hair is just the right combination of messy and styled, his body toned, and he's _funny._ Easy-going. I never knew that his Devil-may-care attitude could be endearing, _but it is._

have to keep up our facade, we aren't being held to the standards that others have set for us. Everything we say to each other is true; completely raw and real.

Like Damon's next statement.

"You're amazing Bonnie Bennett," there is so much awe in his voice like he is now seeing something he should have noticed a long time ago. "And so beautiful."

His words make me self-conscious at first - I'm not used to people gushing over me like this. It's kind of nice. The rush of joy rushes through me dizzying and excited.

What should I do now? I know what I want, but the notion is pretty crazy. I'm not one to be so forward when my emotions are involved... only, I don't know if I will ever feel like this again.

I decide to throw caution to this wind. "Kiss me."

He doesn't hesitate. His lips press against mine, gentle at first, but my hands wrap around his neck and I crawl into his lap, which changes everything. Soon, I feel his hands drift into what should be unauthorized territory, but I don't care, and he stops for a moment, looking at me as if to ask permission.

"Go ahead."

And he does. The rush I feel is heady and regret is the farthest thing from my mind as our clothing ends up in a haphazard pile on the floor. At this moment, all that matters is what I want. What my parents think I _should_ do means nothing. For once, I'm not going to think about anyone else's opinions.

It's just us—Damon and Bonnie—and everything is perfect because I don't have to worry about being the model student or daughter or friend.

I can just _be._


	3. A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

* * *

**~Chapter One~**

* * *

" _Treachery and violence are spears pointed at both ends; they wound those who resort to them worse than their enemies."_

_~Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights~_

* * *

_It's for the best._

_We can easily pretend like nothing ever happened._

_It's no big deal._

_It will be our dirty little secret._

These are the things I tell myself as I pace around my bedroom, anxious and confused. My parents had ended our trip early—Dad had snagged a huge account—and they both decided it would be better if we cut our vacation short. When work calls, Rudy Bennett answers.

Consequently, Damon and I haven't communicated much since I woke up in his arms, head throbbing as the room spun. It was only eleven 'o'clock and no one had returned from their night out. Damon held my hair back as I puked, walked me home when I was no longer dizzy and made sure I got into the house safely.

And I left the following day.

I sent him a text: _Rudy's going back to work. Leaving 2day._

To which he replied:

_That's sucks._

Never before have I been so unsure of what those words meant. Was he trying to say something without being direct? Or was he just reminding me that being trapped in the car, hungover and miserable, would be far worse than I imagined?

Either way, I didn't know how to respond. Before, when we decided to make the best of our crappy circumstances, I knew that our truce would only last as long as we were at the beach.

And then we hooked up.

Part of me regrets it, while the other part secretly enjoyed it—which blurs the line we crossed even more. I know I can't ask my friends for advice because Elena has a vested interest in her boyfriend's brother and Care can't keep a secret if her life depended on it.

So, I'm left to sort this mess out alone.

Damon has had a lot of casual sex—he brags about it whenever possible, the cad—and that's really all it was, but… did that mean we had to go back to hating the other's guts?

I flop backward onto my bed, staring up at my ceiling as if my answer would suddenly appear there. Sadly, all I see is white, space.

I feel stupid.

If I want an answer, I know where to find it. I have to go straight to the source. I'll just ask him outright— _are we playing nice now?_ And if he says no, it's no skin off my nose. Good sex doesn't equal affection, after all, and then I will know where I stand.

Bonnie Bennett is not a coward. Especially when it comes to unthinking, self-absorbed jackasses. Namely, Damon, as _someone_ has to give him a reality check, a task no one else is up for. Except for Stefan, but since his older brother never listens to him, the responsibility falls squarely on my shoulders.

It's a chore most of the time, but today it feels more daunting than frustrating.

And that's not good.

I try not to think too deeply about it as I pull a pair of shorts over my hips and slide flip flops on my feet. Over-analyzing the matter won't help me any, it would only cloud my judgment. And that won't make this any easier.

It's eerily quiet, something I probably should have noticed when the sounds coming from the television stopped. A glance in the kitchen tells me that it had been occupied—the yellow, checkered curtains are pulled aside, the newspaper lies open on the table, chairs pushed back as if whoever sat there had to leave in a hurry.

I wasn't informed of it, but clearly, Mom and Dad have already left for the day.

It's not out of the ordinary for them to head to their respective jobs without saying goodbye. They write me notes, little memos with what they assume should be important information.

Things like _meeting six_ or _dinner date, order a pizza on us._

I don't know why I expected to find anyone downstairs and I don't know why I'm both relieved and irate.

Their absence is _good._ That means I won't have to explain what I'm up to. Sometimes, when our paths _do_ cross, my mom likes to play the role of an interested parent. It's a pretense that makes me feel even more alone than I am when they aren't around.

I grab my house key from the dish by the entrance and lock the door behind me.

The walk to Damon's house is only a five-minute journey, but it feels much longer than that.

What should I say?

_Hey, I know we both are currently ignoring each other, but I really liked having sex with you, so much so that I hate you marginally less now. Are we good? Oh, and thanks for looking after me when I puked all over your bathroom._

Actually, that doesn't sound as bad as I thought it would. If I get rid of the part about the sex and the vomit, it almost sounds like a typical exchange between us. The only difference will be the awkward honesty about the whole conversation—because it _actually happened._ Hypotheticals aren't a safety net. There isn't any place for an "I'd rather", or "as if."

The more I drag my feet, the more I want to turn around. So, I begin moving at a quicker pace, Grams' voice rings in my ears.

_Problems never get solved if you avoid them, sweetie._

The weather is nice, the sun partially obscured by a cloud, and cooler than one would expect from a sunny August day. Children are racing to the park on their bikes. A kid with a blue helmet whizzes by me, shouting "sorry lady," because he almost runs over my feet. Elementary school students take Mystic Falls by storm during their breaks. It's a testament to the beacon of happiness and safety where I live. The idyllic perfection of small-town life.

The Salvatore home is large and ornate. It reminds me of the McMansions that are featured on episodes of _The Real Housewives._ Perfectly manicured lawn, expensive cars parked in a brick driveway, a gazebo on the side, surrounded by all kinds of yellow flowers.

It's one of two buildings that make the colonial-style architecture of every other home in Mystic Falls look much smaller than they really are. The Lockwood family has accommodations that are even more opulent, but Rich Lockwood is the mayor, so of course, he has to have the best of everything his little town has to offer.

When I'm about a foot away from the driveway, I see something that makes my stomach drop to my feet.

Leaning against the Camaro is a pretty, blonde girl I recognize immediately.

Rebekah Mikaelson.

Her family is just as wealthy as the Salvatore's and Lockwood's, but they live just outside of Mystic Falls. Why she and her brother, Klaus, attend our high school is beyond me. You'd think that they would prefer an elite, private school, but they get their kicks from being the best-dressed, the most popular, and the most liked. Oh, not to mention the props for having lived in England before making their home in Anytown USA.

People practically fall at their feet to get invited to one of their house parties.

Well, everyone but Damon.

Rebekah has always had a crush on him, but she acts aloof as if she doesn't care about him. And yet, every so often, she'll "run into him" and reacts as if she's so surprised to find him standing in front of her. Flirting ensues. Elena says something rude about Rebekah. Care chimes in.

It's a whole thing I try to ignore. Usually, it's easy, why do I care who that jackass dates or fucks or uses? I think it is disgusting, something I like to remind Elena of--because you can clean the mud off a pig, but that won't stop him from getting dirty again—and she just brushes me off. So, I stopped wasting my breath. It doesn't affect me directly, after all.

Until now.

Damon has never shown any interest in Rebekah. He'll treat her just as he would any other girl. Like they're only good for one thing, One night. Some days, Elena makes a huge deal of telling me that he rolls his eyes whenever she shows up. That he shuts down her advances at every turn.

If he does _this_ when Elena around them, then my brunette friend is in total denial.

They are close, not quite touching, but it still looks intimate. He's leaning toward her, not even being discreet about staring at her chest.

And she's lapping his attention up, twirling a lock of hair with her fingers, complimenting him in an exaggerated version of her natural British accent.

Okay, _now_ I feel stupid.

I was naïve to believe that the Damon I got along with was the real him. He wasn't sincere about anything. As soon as we parted ways, he reverted to being the chauvinistic douchebag I grew up with.

What makes it worse is the disappointment I feel, the sadness that hits me like a truck when she finally kisses him.

My eyes are burning, a sure sign that tears are coming. I clench my fists so tightly that my nails break the skin on my palms. That fire—the hatred I reserve for the older Salvatore brother—scorches everything in its path. It eats me up so quickly that if I remain where I am, I know I'll say something I might end up regretting.

So, I turn to go.

But I don't flee the scene fast enough. Just as I'm turning my head, Damon makes eye contact with me. I'm staring, green eyes wide, into a sea of the blue I drunkenly described as mesmerizing.

A flurry of emotions passes over his face. Almost all at once. Anger, surprise, an expression I don't recognize, and a hint of embarrassment.

I know the only thing he sees in return is my fury.

I'm running away, creating so much distance between us, that I can barely hear him call after me. The sound is so faint, I may have even imagined it.

Either way, I got my answer.

* * *

I know I'm not acting like myself.

I'm a zombie, going through the motions of my day-to-day life. Wake up, shower, drive to the children's hospital, read books to the young patients, go home, go to bed.

Caroline and Elena have come home, and we all agreed to meet up. I would usually be happy for the girl time, but I can't dredge up any excitement for our plans. I'm aware that it's ridiculous to be so upset over something that probably shouldn't have happened.

Something that meant very little to me.

After all, I had come up with a list of feeble reasons why we should keep our one-night stand to ourselves. Elena Gilbert being number one. She's always talking about how Damon isn't as bad as we all believe he is. And, when it comes to her, he is always on his best behavior, which isn't much more exemplary than his typical antics, if you ask me.

And no one ever does anymore.

I'm _positive_ she would be heartbroken if I were to tell her my news, but not for the reasons one might think. On the surface, she might be aghast at Damon's callousness. Inside, there would be a hint of jealousy, no matter how much she would deny it.

She has a small crush on her boyfriend's brother. Caroline and I have a bet on whether or not Stefan is aware of it. She thinks he is, that he _must_ see the fleeting glances his girlfriend throws Damon's way.

I, for one, like to think he doesn't notice. It's less awkward that way and it makes the happier times they share all the more adorable. Elena's crazy about Stefan. They are good together—Stefan stabilizes my fickle bestie—and the joy only wavers when Damon is nearby.

My silence will ultimately make things so much easier. I don't want to throw away a fourteen years-long friendship for the biggest jackass in the whole state. It would be nice to speak to Caroline because she's been waiting for me to have some kind of romantic entanglement and she would offer me the comfort I need, but it's too risky. If I don't tell her _who_ deflowered me, she will stop at nothing to get a name.

And once that happens, everything else will go downhill _fast._

I want to call and say that I can't make it, that I picked up some more volunteer hours. I'm so close to dialing Elena's number. Going back-to-school shopping (for clothes, notebooks and pencils are always an afterthought when Care is with us) feels more like a chore than a fun outing.

I don't think a new outfit will make me feel better. It isn't as if it would change anything. Damon will still be hooking up with Rebekah and I will still be the judgmental bitch.

I get dressed, throwing my sweatpants on top of the pile of dirty laundry on the floor. My bedroom hasn't been cleaned since I've been home. Surprisingly, my desire for organization has fallen by the wayside. My desk is a disarray of papers and folders and pens. Clothes and shoes are scattered across the floor, along with the bags I've yet to unpack. The clean clothes I do have sit wrinkled in a basket by the door. I threw a jacket over my mirror because I got tired of looking at myself, so I decided to make that impossible. Now I don't have to feel bad for not wanting to be myself. I don't have to brush my hair or put on make-up. This is good because I have bags underneath my eyes from not sleeping and crying so much.

I force myself to leave my safe zone. They will assume the worst if I cancel on them a half hour before we are supposed to be at the mall.

As per usual, I'm the first one to arrive.

I wait for them, leaning against my blue Prius, swinging my keyring around my finger in a pathetic attempt to distract myself from the negative thoughts looming in the back of my mind.

It's not working. I want to scream. I want to stomp my feet in anger. I want to let it all out. And I would have if Caroline weren't making her way over to me. She looks perfect, blond hair flat-ironed, skin tanned, blue eyes bright. In a t-shirt with _California_ printed in an arch across the chest, which is tucked into a pair of trendy, high-waisted shorts. Oh, and very expensive-looking sandals—because shoes are the best part of fashion, according to her.

She tackles me, throwing her arms around my shoulders, squeezing tightly. "Bon, I missed you so much!"

"I missed you, too." I pat her back slowly.

"Teasing Elena about her lovey-dovey good-night texts to Stefan wasn't any fun without you."

"I'm sure we'll make up for the lost time when she gets here."

Caroline scoffs. "If she ever leaves his house. She stopped over there first."

I groan, prepared to match her statement with a joke of my own, but she doesn't give me the chance.

" _Bonnie!"_ she chides in a high-pitched squeal. _"What happened to you?_ Did you give all your good clothes to a homeless person?"

I look down at my outfit. Black harem pants, gray tank top, flip flops. I shudder to think what she would say if I came the way I _wanted;_ in the sweatpants, I've been living in for the past few days. I actually put some effort into my appearance today.

But Caroline isn't used to me not looking put-together. I have my outfits picked out a week in advance. My long hair is always tangle-free, curled, or straightened. Not in the messy bun she sees now. Maybe I _should_ have bailed, acting normal is harder than I thought it would be.

"I spent so long without your influence… I forgot how to look good."

"Nice try, but I don't think so. Are you sick?"

 _Yeah. Of Damon Salvatore._ "Nope."

"Have you finally had a mental breakdown? I _told_ you that you work too hard. It was only a matter of time before you went nuts."

"I'm fine, Care."

"Then why do you look like a smelly hobo?"

"I don't smell!" I protest indignantly.

"No, you smell like perfume. But you _look_ like you haven't showered in days."

Okay, so I haven't really left my bed until now, but she's still going overboard with the theatrics. "I forgot to do laundry… really. Dad making us come back early threw off my chi."

"Chi?"

"My Zen—my whole schedule is screwed up and therefore my brain chemistry is off."

"That is ridiculous, but I'll let it slide. On the condition you let me pick out something for you to wear on the first day of school."

I hold my hands up in surrender. "Okay, okay, you win."

"Good, now come on. We'll be out here forever if we wait for Elena." She grabs my forearm and drags me over to the front doors.

Mystic Mall has never been my favorite place. It's loud and crowded. If that isn't bad enough, there is always a high chance of running into someone I don't want to see.

"Care, slow down. We almost ran into that little girl!"

But Caroline Forbes is on a mission, so getting her attention is futile. When she wants something, she will stop at nothing to get it. I admire her tenacity, but she often doesn't think about the consequences, which means I have to clean up an unnecessary mess.

And I _really_ don't want to waste my time placating an irate parent because one of my best friends knocked her "precious angel" down. Somehow, I don't think explaining that getting to the best sale's rack is crucial will smooth things over.

Thankfully, we are able to avoid conflict. We weave through groups of people effortlessly, around kiosks that tout some over-priced, diluted CBD oil, and past the small play area that always smells like a dirty diaper.

We've been scouring the shelves and displays for a good fifteen minutes before Elena shows up. It's almost like she materialized out of thin air. I didn't hear her approach us until a loud sigh makes me jump.

" _Finally,"_ Caroline huffs irritably. "I texted you that we had a major fashion disaster on our hands." She points to me, raising her eyebrows as if to say, _"look what I had to deal with. Alone._

"Bonnie, I've been dying to talk to you."

I brace myself for the incoming hug, relieved that she didn't join in on the fashion-shaming.

"Well, we're all here, so talk away," I smile at her, hoping I look more encouraging than I feel. After all, solving whatever dilemma she has means I have less time to dwell on my own mistakes.

She collapses onto a nearby bench and throws her hands up in exasperation. "I had been so glad to see Stef, but Damon always has to ruin it!"

"I thought you said he stopped hitting on you," Care holds up a t-shirt and waits for our approval.

"Too plain," she says. "And he _did_. But then he started dating Rebekah Mikaelson! They were coming out of his room when I was there. It was obvious they were having sex! Her skirt was crooked!"

"So? Damon is always looking for a hook-up… don't let his jerkiness get you upset. He's not worth it. You _totally_ chose the right brother."

I nod in agreement. "He's not going to change, Elena, no matter how much you want him to—trust me on this."

"But Bon, you've always hated him! You never gave him a chance. He's never going to be happy— _truly happy—_ unless he gets serious about the right person… and it's not her."

"Elena, he gave my underwear to Klaus for shits and giggles."

"Klaus just _said_ Damon did that… and you kneed him in the groin, so I thought you guys were even. You just need to spend a little more time with him—then you'll see that he's matured a bit."

I'm getting dizzy trying to keep up with her explanations. "Yeah, Elena… I'll get right on that." _After I rip my own eyelids off, douse myself in gasoline, and light a match._

"I'm with Bonnie," Caroline says. "Once an ass, always an ass."

"Hear! Hear!"

"He's my friend, though. I feel like he needs our help, some other form of companionship, that way, he can stop making dumb mistakes." Elena sounds really sad; It pulls at my heartstrings.

Except for the 'dumb mistakes' remark—that one cut a little too deep. "Damon will figure things out. Don't worry about it so much."

"You really believe that?" she asks me.

 _No, but what's one white lie?_ "Yeah, of course."


	4. Still Standing

* * *

**~Chapter Two~**

* * *

_Walking out, walking out in this cold winter light  
All the pretty girls, all the pretty ones have tears in their eyes  
And I can't because I don't have you here by my side  
And I'll always be, I'll always be the girl that was denied_

_~Bat for Lashes, Honeymooning Alone~_

* * *

_Knock, knock, knock._

Silence.

"Come _on,_ Bonnie! We're going to be late!"

"Go away, Elena!"

I throw my pillow over my head, hoping to drown out both Elena's voice and the near-blinding sunlight filtering in through my window, casting a lace-patterned shadow across my floor and bed.

"That's it—I'm coming in." I hear the door open, her feet stomping across the floor.

I know what to expect before I peek at her from behind my makeshift shade. She will be standing over me, hands on her hips, a worried crease on her forehead, large brown eyes wide with concern.

I lower the pillow. _Yup._ My best friend is in the exact pose I thought she would be, albeit a bit closer to my face than I was prepared for. She presses her palm against my cheek and holds it there.

"I _told you—_ I'm not sick. I just don't want to go."

"Why not? You _live_ for school. You've had perfect attendance since ninth grade. Don't you want to go to Yale—"

" _Yes,"_ well, my mom and dad want me to do that, and I've always wanted to go away for college. Just not so far away and not to study what they think I should, but that isn't really what Elena is getting at. "I'm just… tired, that's all. My chi is—"

"Out of whack," she finishes for me, sighing. "You've been saying that for weeks. And you haven't wanted to leave your room, which is still a huge mess, by the way. I thought you said you were going to clean this up."

Our eyes fly to the duffle bag lying in the middle of the room. "I just haven't gotten around to unpacking yet. I like doing things in the appropriate order."

"Since when is there an order to putting clothes in a hamper?"

"You need to treat some fabrics more gently than others," I parrot back to her. I never thought I'd need to use Caroline's fashion OCD to my advantage, but there's a first time for everything.

"Bon, are you okay? I mean it, you can tell me what's going on. You can tell me anything. I love you, you've always been there for me, let me do the same for you."

"I…" I almost tell her. The confession is on the tip of my tongue, but when I open my mouth I realize that I can't do it. I can't upset Elena. As one of her BFFs, I shouldn't have slept with someone she likes—even though she's dating Damon's brother, even though she claims that she herself loves him like a brother, despite all of the evidence to the contrary.

She sits down beside me and nods her head.

"…I'm… scared," I say lamely.

"Of what?"

"Of…" monsters, heights, spiders, the dark—all lies she wouldn't believe, so I opt for something truthful—though that means I'll be subjecting myself to her worry every time I look stressed. "Of not getting into an Ivy League college… you know, it's basically the only thing my dad wants. It's so much work, what if I can't do it?"

She giggles lightly as if I've just told her a joke. "Don't worry, Bon, if anyone can get into the biophysics program at a top-notch school, it's you."

_Yeah, as if being Bonnie Bennett is all it takes to accomplish that._

But I _do_ appreciate her vote of confidence. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Now come on, if Caroline gets there first we'll never hear the end of it. We always walk into school together."

She's right; we do. It's a tradition we've upheld ever since we became blood sisters during the summer before sixth grade. Arm and arm and arm. An unbreakable chain. I've always loved the warm feeling our entrance gives me. It just reinforces the strength of our friendship… but going to school means seeing Damon.

An activity that's even lower on my list than usual.

The anxiety coils tightly in my stomach. Damon flirting with Rebekah, Damon making out with Rebekah, flaunting his ability to have nearly every girl in town swooning over him.

It makes me want to throw up.

I stare at Elena, who has taken it upon herself to rifle through my closet in search of a Forbes-approved outfit.

"How about this?" She holds up the hanger with the dress that I bought when we went to the mall. The tags are still on it.

"I _do_ kind of like that one," I admit. "I just need a sweater or something."

"On it."

As I slip the frock over my shoulders, I tell myself that I'll be fine. That seeing him will be a non-issue because our relationship will remain the same: antagonistic. It's nothing new. I can handle it.

I can handle anything.

* * *

We stand next to the large brick sign that says _Mystic Falls High School, est. 1902._ The entryway is swarming with students, just as it had been when we left the campus in June. Every table in the courtyard is taken by seniors, though that's not saying much. The outdoor eating area is small, just like our class sizes. The lawn is freshly mowed, the garden covered in new soil and flowers that are pretty shades of pink and purple.

The building itself is stately, small in stature, but dignified. The first day of the school year is the best. Everything about it is brand-new; from the buffed floor to the fliers stapled on the bulletin board. The bathrooms have yet to be destroyed by graffiti and toilet paper and the handicap stall is clean, the memories of awkward hook-ups during study hall washed away with copious amounts of bleach.

To me, it signifies the opportunity to change things, to correct the bad habits picked up over the break. Every September, I convince myself that I'll tell Dad that I want to attend Whitmore after I graduate—that I want to major in English or Anthropology—and every year, I chicken out.

Rocking the boat never seems worth it. Why would I want to make what little time I spend with my parents tense? Until now, delaying the inevitable seemed like a solid plan, but I'm going to be down to the wire before I know it.

A fact that is made painfully obvious as I check the time on my phone.

6:50.

Ten minutes until the bell rings.

"I've got coffee!" A familiar voice trills.

I look up to see Caroline, who has stopped by the little coffee shop on the corner of Fifth and Liberty before coming to school. She has gotten us each an iced coffee. We take turns buying sugary drinks for one another, at least once a week, and I look forward to it.

But I'm already jittery enough as it is.

My belly flip-flops when she hands me my cup. "Thank, Care."

"No problem," she holds her drink up. "I propose a toast. To the best friends—no, _sisters—_ a girl could ask for. To the best last year of high school, to all the senior parties and dances. We are going to kick ass!"

"Cheers!" Elena and I say in unison.

I sip the coffee slowly, silently begging my digestive system to calm down. I'm able to finish the entire cup, but I'm going to regret it when lunchtime rolls around.

I'm already dreading it, wondering if I'll be able to spend the half-hour—alone—in the bathroom by the library when Elena motions for me to catch up.

Funny, I didn't even realize they started to walk away.

The way Caroline studies me as I close the gap between us lets me know that she tried to get my attention before starting toward the building.

We ascend the steps leading into the school. Our arms are interlocked, Care on the right, Elena in the middle, and me on the left. Tyler, the mayor's only son, flashes a grin at Caroline and pulls one of the doors open. Matt, who dated Elena from seventh through ninth grade, holds the other one.

This is what I mean when I call them boy magnets. Matt has always loved Elena and they had a pretty solid connection, but then she fell for Stefan. After his mother passed, she wanted to be the one to make the younger Salvatore brother feel alive again. He had that sexy, brooding thing that she finds irresistible. And Damon… he's the "bad boy" in all the ways his younger brother is not, which sums up why she is attracted to him.

Elena loves to walk on the wild side; she just doesn't want to take up a permanent residence there.

"Matt looks good this year," Caroline whispers to us. "I haven't seen Tyler since our date before we left. I figured he didn't want to make things official with me being gone for so long."

"It looks like he's been waiting for you," I say. "Go for it."

"Yeah. _You_ should ask _him_ out," Elena adds. "Before Matt makes a move on you. I saw the way he looked at you. You don't want to have a bunch of relationship drama this year… we have too much to do."

"Matt was staring at _your_ ass, not mine. He still loves you—not that I blame him. Oh, and I can't forget to mention the fact that it's against girl code."

Elena shrugs, unbothered by the _don't date a friend's ex_ taboo. "It's fine if either of you wants to, Matt was a good boyfriend. We just… we never had a spark, you know? I mean, I'm glad he was my first everything, but we were better off as friends."

"I get it," Caroline relents. "Maybe we should focus on Bonnie for a change. Did you meet any potential boyfriends at the beach?" she nudges my shoulder.

For a second, I freeze. My body tenses as reminders of Damon flood my mind. I shake my head, hoping to erase the memories, wishing my brain worked like an etch-a-sketch.

"That's a _hard_ no," I say once I've recovered.

Caroline doesn't have a chance to ask any more questions. We are all distracted by a beeping noise coming from Elena's shorts.

She fishes her phone out of her back pocket. "It's Stef. He says he'll meet us by the stairs next to Saltzman's room. Damon and Rebekah are with him."

"Remember, Damon sucks, okay?"

We stare at Elena as she tries to hide the disgusted expression on her face. A frown, her nose wrinkled as if she smells something awful. "He should take a page from Stefan's book."

"Damon is a douche canoe," I grumble. "He's not worth the trouble."

"Bonnie's right—forget him and let's go find your boyfriend. Act like he isn't even there."

"You're right," Elena says, tugging at a lock of dark brown hair.

She doesn't sound as if she means it, though I should just be glad she isn't insisting that I give him a second, third, or fourth chance.

By the time we reach the designated stairwell, everyone else is already there.

Stefan's face lights up when he meets Elena's eyes and the next thing I know; they are hugging each other as if they didn't get together the night prior. Rebekah is looking particularly smug this morning, with her designer everything and perfect make-up, hand gripping Damon's so tightly that I'm surprised it hasn't turned blue.

Caroline and I exchange an exasperated glance.

One I hold for much longer than socially acceptable. Anything to avoid talking to Damon. The last time I saw him, I was still semi-drunk, and wearing his t-shirt since I barfed on my dress, and the bathroom floor, and the toilet—both in the bowl and on the seat.

Come to think of it, I should have dropped said t-shirt on the ground when I caught him with Rebekah that day. I should have stomped it into the dirt. Then, well, he wouldn't have a reason to bring it up today, and I wouldn't feel like so much of a noob.

And I would have drawn a clear line in the sand.

Instead, it's open season. And if I know anything about Damon Salvatore, it's that he needs to have the last word just as much as I do. The only difference between us is that he will do whatever it takes to be right, to get his way, and there are certain boundaries I refuse to cross.

"What classes do you guys have?" Caroline asks, skipping the pleasantries. We all know where we stand.

"We have chemistry," Elena and Stefan say at the same time. Something I would have found cute if I weren't so on edge.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Damon rolling his.

"I have algebra with Ms. Catz." Care.

"I have a meeting with the dance committee," Rebekah supplies, clearly bored.

I remember getting my schedule from the mailbox a few days ago and I regret not fishing it out of my wastebasket yesterday. "Anatomy… I think."

"What a coincidence, I have anatomy, too."

I don't have to look at Damon to know that he's enjoying my discomfort.

The bell rings and I force myself to pry my gaze away from the row of lockers to my left. As soon as I do, I see Damon extending his hand in my direction, eyebrows raised in curiosity, just daring me to take it. And if I don't, in his mind, that would mean our night together meant something to me.

When it meant nothing to him.

I decided to take my chances. _"Don't even think about touching me."_

He gives me a short nod, arm dropping to his side. _Point for Salvatore._ A smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth.

I hold my breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. _Funny,_ he is going to say, _you didn't mind me touching you when we were at the beach._

And it doesn't happen.

"Whatever Bennett, I'm just trying to be a gentleman."

I scoff.

"But _obviously_ you don't care. Just don't run to me with an apology later on. You might want to take some Midol, though. It sounds like Bloody Mary is about to visit you."

"Right, because my bad mood couldn't _possibly_ have to do with you."

"My thoughts exactly."

_Don't engage, don't engage, don't engage._

I repeat my mantra over and over again, turning on my heel to begin my trek to the science lab on the second floor. If I don't get moving soon, all the good lab partners will be taken, and I'll have to buddy up with the Devil incarnate.

However, I should have known that I couldn't outrun the bastard. His footsteps fall in line with mine. No matter how fast I push forward, he doesn't miss a beat. I clutch my books to my chest and pretend that he isn't next to me.

"What's your _problem,_ Judgy?"

" _You,"_ I snap before I can stop myself.

"And here a thought we parted on good terms," the sarcasm is palpable.

"You thought wrong. Again."

"You seemed satisfied."

"I—I… It wasn't a good idea." I hate how my voice wavers.

"You _liked_ it," he says tauntingly. "You're embarrassed. Don't worry, your secret's safe with me." And then, with a hint of anger, "I've been pretending it never happened anyway. I don't like to remember my low points."

" _What the fuck did you say?"_

"You heard me. It didn't matter, so stop acting as it did."

I slap him. The sound of my hand connecting his cheek is extremely gratifying. My palm tingles from the impact. I put every ounce of pain he's caused me over the years into that slap. It's for belittling me, dipping my pigtail in a bottle of glue, pushing me on the playground, shaming me for crying after Grams died.

I guess talking to him would have been pointless to begin with. I think I made my feelings pretty clear and I didn't have to say a single word.

However, I feel the need to say _something._ You know, to drive my point home.

'"You are scum," I whisper through clenched teeth.

Then, I hurry in the opposite direction, leaving him standing angry and alone in the hallway, making a beeline for the bathroom. It's the one place I'll be able to cry without anyone watching.

* * *

The walls are closing in on me.

I don't like the feeling, but the only other alternative is going to class and just giving it half a thought makes my breakfast curdle in my stomach.

So, the bathroom stall it is.

I bring my knees to my chest and bury my head in my arms.

He isn't worth the tears that are spilling down my cheeks, he isn't worth the phone call home I'll get for missing first period either, but I can't get a grip on myself. It doesn't even make sense; I should be _glad_ he isn't harping over the fact that we slept together. It's what I wanted. I mean, it's _better_ like this. I don't need a constant reminder that I lost my virginity to the biggest asshole in Mystic Falls.

As if I need another reason to wallow in self-pity

I have to get ahold of myself. Crying never fixes anything; it only serves to make matters worse. And it makes me feel weak like I am being crushed under the weight of the entire world. This is especially true when it comes to a verbal confrontation.

You can't let the other person know they've struck a chord.

I really haven't been myself lately. I've always prided myself on having control over my every emotion. I never give in and I'm not reckless. Why did Damon have to be the one I stepped out of my comfort zone with? And why am I curled up in a bathroom stall? _He_ should be the one crying over _me_. I'm not the one who is missing out on anything.

Since when do I burst into tears over something _Damon_ said?

Since when do I burst into tears _at all?_

I take a deep breath, wipe the last few teardrops away, and stand up.

I'm done with acting like the victim. No one—especially someone who belongs with the rats—has the right to make me feel like shit. How could I have forgotten that?

Standing in front of the mirror, I brush my hair away from my eyes and try to smile. It looks fake like I've painted it on my face. My eyes are puffy and red—still plagued by some unseen conflict. Everyone will be able to tell that I've been crying, something I don't want to be pointed out. Hopefully, if I act indifferent, nobody will say anything to me.

I look down at my dress and brush myself off.

Caroline will kill me if she thinks I look any less than immaculate.

My legs are shaking a little as I open the door. I look to the left and then the right, hoping that the principal isn't patrolling the hallways. Thank God the coast is clear, I don't think I'd be able to deal with a lecture—I would probably break down again.

The quiet is peaceful, relaxing. I linger by the football display case, examining last year's team photograph, occasionally glancing at my reflection to see if the swelling under my eyes has gone down. Of course, it hasn't, but hey, at least there's _something_ to celebrate—our boys were number one in the division. For the third year in a row.

I contemplate how that will affect the cheerleading team. Would more be expected of us now that our sports program is dominated by winners. Caroline will probably be extra critical of the incoming freshman at try-outs

"Bonnie?"

I whirl around to see Lorenzo St. John staring at me with what I can only assume is concern…which is odd. We aren't really friends—he's polite enough—but our paths rarely cross. He hangs around Damon, so I've always thought that meant he had the propensity to be a jerk as well.

"Yeah?"

"Are you alright?"

"Oh, yeah, of course," I answer quickly… _too_ quickly.

Enzo shakes his head. "Then why does it look like you've been crying?"

"Fluorescent lighting."

"Surely you don't think I'm _that_ gullible."

"I'm fine," I insist, planting my hands on my hips. "I just didn't feel like going to anatomy class."

"Yeah, the human body is pretty depressing. Well, yours isn't, but that's one out of… however many people on the planet."

"7.594 billion," I say.

"It's impressive that you know that off the top of your head," Enzo says with a small grin.

I shrug. "I have a good memory, that's all."

"So… if I ask you to come to the Grille with me after school, will you remember to show up?"

"I, uh… sure, I guess. I really don't want to go to the informational meeting Care's holding in the gym. The irony of a pep-less cheerleader will be lost on everyone."

"What time is the meeting?"

"Three-thirty."

"See you at three, then."

"Um… yeah, I'll uh… be there at three."

"It's a date."


	5. Situational Dating

* * *

**~Chapter Three~**

* * *

_Love is but the discovery of ourselves in others and the delight in the recognition_

_~Alexander Smith~_

* * *

Mystic Grille is almost empty (thankfully).

The only other patrons are seated at the bar, holding onto their bottles of beer closely, as if that were the only thing keeping them sane. Who knows? Maybe it is. I can't say that I don't get the appeal anymore. It was nice, not _thinking_ for a change, the edge of staying within the restraints of what is considered "good" dulled.

Of course, the after-effects aren't at all worth it, something I'll remember the next time I feel like taking a risk.

I seat myself in a booth adjacent to the pool table, setting my bag and sweater beside me. Enzo isn't here yet, but it's only seven after three, and I can't expect everyone to stick as closely to their schedules as I do.

I arrived right on time and spent four minutes waiting outside the Grille until I felt too awkward and sweaty to do so any longer. The fact that I had been able to tell Caroline that she would have to rely solely on Elena to drum up interest and make it here when I did is miraculous

A waitress comes by the table and asks if I want to order an appetizer while I wait on Enzo, so I ask for water. She's come by my table at least two separate times urging me to actually request something that has monetary value before I spot him.

He's speed-walking through the door, hair tousled as if he ran his fingers through it many times throughout the day, perspiration on his brow, slightly out of breath; like he ran to get here at a reasonable time.

"Sorry I'm late," he says apologetically. "Stefan Salvatore and Matt Donavan cornered me and asked if I would be interested in volunteering for concession stand duty at the first game."

"And?"

"And what?"

"Did you say you'd do it?"

He laughs. "A sense of humor, too. You're amazing. I said no, obviously. Football isn't my thing."

"Oh, that's disappointing…" I take a sip of water. "I was kind of hoping I'd see you there."

"Maybe I'll come anyway, you know, to support the cheerleading team."

I look down at the table, hoping to hide the smile spreading across my face. I can't help it; the flirtatious undertone in Enzo's voice gives me a small thrill, especially after the conversation I had with Damon earlier.

It's nice to feel wanted. Of course, I should proceed with caution, seeing as I had—stupidly—thought for half a second that Damon wanted me. Sure, we'd been drinking, and we weren't really thinking, but it sounded sincere when he said it, over and over, telling me how beautiful he thinks or rather, _thought_ I was while sloshed out of his mind…

And, in some respects, Enzo bears many similarities to my arch-nemesis. They carry themselves in much the same way, haughtily, as though they can get away with just about anything (which, as far as most people are concerned, they _can_ ). Enzo is just as good-looking as Damon as well, with dark hair, a smug facial expression, and a wardrobe that consists of dark colors and leather jackets.

Enzo's eyes are brown, though. Much warmer and more inviting than his counterpart's.

He slides into the bench across from me, flags the waitress down, and asks what I want to eat. He shoots down my response of _nothing, I'm fine, really,_ with a charming grin, and requests that I split a plate of nachos with him in such a way that I find it hard to decline.

After about twenty more minutes of free-flowing conversation, I feel like I may have misjudged Enzo St. John. He's a lot kinder than I imagined him to be and it doesn't inhibit his quick wit.

"So, if Caroline is such a type-A personality, how'd you get away with skipping out on her?"

"I told her I wasn't feeling well," I explain. _No need to mention that it was actually a valid excuse for multiple reasons._ Enzo may be a good listener, but I don't feel comfortable sharing too many details about my personal life. If I can't say anything to people who I view as sisters, why would it be a good idea to spill my guts to one of Damon's best friends?

"Ah, that's right—you seemed sad earlier. Why was that?"

"I wasn't _sad._ I was just… stressed." I avert my eyes and reach for a chip.

"Who would want to make you so upset?"

 _Why don't you ask your best friend?_ "No one. I never said a person was bothering me."

"I know, but from my experience, only other humans can make people _that_ upset. You looked like someone boiled a live puppy in front of you."

"Why do I get the feeling that I'll owe you money after another forty minutes?"

"Because I'm good at reading people," he replies. "But I didn't ask you out to be an armchair therapist. I asked you out because I've wanted to for a while now."

For a minute, I'm speechless. I stir a few melting ice cubes around with my straw. "But we've barely talked to each other until today."

"You're very pretty, Bonnie Bennett. I'm a sucker for green eyes. And, well, anyone who puts Damon in his place—multiple times a day—is a force to be reckoned with."

"You're lying," I accuse Enzo, narrowing my eyes. Mostly because I can't picture Damon mentioning me in any capacity when I'm not standing directly in front of him. "Stop acting like I'm a topic of your conversations."

"You're not, really, I've just caught you talking with him a few times, and your talent for witty banter is very cool." He seems so genuine that I try not to question it.

What would I get from attacking his character more than I did a second ago?

"Thank you—I've got to say, you're pretty interesting, Enzo."

"Is that a compliment?"

"Do you want it to be?"

"Yes."

"Then, yeah, it's a compliment."

* * *

I'm really beginning to like Enzo.

Although, he's a distraction. A good-humored, attractive, and attentive distraction. One I shouldn't get so invested in, what with four advanced placement classes and cheerleading practice, but when he calls or texts me, I get this giddy sensation in the pit of my stomach.

And before I know it, I've put off writing an essay or studying for a history test in favor of spending time with him.

I'm having a time it trying to keep up with my obligations because of it.

If I thought my chi was imbalanced before, I was sorely mistaken. The past few nights, I've fallen asleep in the middle of completing a string of math problems. When I'm conscious again, I realize that I'm laying with my head on the corner of my mattress, feet atop my pillow, papers strewn over my comforter, and my back-up alarm blaring in my ears.

I feel extra out of it this morning, exhausted, though I slept for a solid eight hours. Which meant I was late leaving the house, so I skipped breakfast, which means I'm not at all prepared for how grueling today's practice is going to be.

_Caroline is probably right. I'm one of those over-achievers that will burn out long before they actually achieve anything._

I take a swig from my water bottle before I join my teammates on the mats.

"I'm thinking we should work on our pyramid," Care is saying. "I want that to be our big finale. The freshmen are going to want to see something traditional at the end of half-time."

"Can we work on basket tosses, too?" Aimee Bradley asks.

I know Caroline will veto the suggestion. She has never liked the dark-haired junior, mostly because she has set her sights on stealing my best friend's title as cheer captain. Which comes as a relief to me—for once.

I'm a flier and I don't really think I have the strength to handle being thrown in the air at the moment.

"Good idea," says Caroline, tightening her ponytail.

I know I must look shell-shocked. The _one_ time I want her to act like a dismissive asshole, she doesn't pull through.

"Bon? Are you okay?"

My eyes fly over to where Elena is standing, peering at me with a suspicious glint in her doe-eyes. "Of course, I've been waiting for someone to suggest working on stunts for the past fifteen minutes."

"Are you sure? Do you want Maddie to do the first few?"

The gymnasium doors open with a disruptive creaking noise and who walks in but Damon and Enzo. They're probably using the room as a shortcut on the way to the outdoor bleachers, under which they will get high. Like they are starring in their own horrible after-school special.

Enzo's eyes meet mine.

My heartbeat speeds up—just a little bit.

"Mind if we watch, Bonnie?" he calls to me, already taking a seat on the wooden benches catty-corner to the stage.

Aimee answers him as if I don't exist. "We'd love an audience!"

I shoot her an irritated look. _She_ may want them to stare at her while she's wearing nothing more than shorts and a top that puts her midriff on display, but I don't want Damon to see any more of my body than he already has.

 _Except he's seen everything,_ the self-deprecating side of my brain taunts.

I spare a glance at him—he seems agitated. Though, I deduce this from the way he moves; not the way he looks. He trudges over to Enzo and leans against the wall. I am on his side on this one. I'd much rather he spend his time buying low-quality pot from Tyler Lockwood than waste another second staring at me with that expression on his face, the one that mirrors the arrogant happiness plastered on his face when we were fucking.

 _He's probably looking at Elena. He's always thinking about Elena._ Every girl he's ever dated or flirted with is compared to her. And no one ever lives up to that standard, but I think that's partially because she believes he's _"not that bad."_ I'm sure anyone would like someone who showers them in blind faith better than the person who calls them out on their bullshit.

Sometimes, I wish I were more easy-going. Grams often used to say that forgiveness eases the pain of those who give it just as much as those who ask for it. And, I have to admit, Elena _does_ seem happy, but… things aren't ever that simple.

Every motive has layers.

Everyone is watching me expectantly. Aimee and Maddie are in place already, and practice can't go forward unless I do.

So, I do.

It feels like the world has disappeared when I'm launched into the air. The fluorescent lights blend with the red banners hanging on the wall. My head is spinning, and I'm scared I might puke. Landing on my feet is an impossibility; I'll meet the ground back-first. I employ the only preventive measure I can—I close my eyes and brace myself for the impact.

But it never comes.

I open one eye.

Damon is staring down at me with… concern? No, that isn't right… we hate each other. Why would he care if I get injured? A second passes, the worry turns to indifference, leaving me wondering if I imagined the fear that contorted his mouth into a weird-looking grimace, made his eyes flash with intensity.

"First day with the new legs, Bennett?"

I shake my head. _Too fast._ I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath.

"You're… just… bad…luck."

I hear Enzo chuckling from behind him. "She's making fun of you… that means she's in her right mind."

A second pair of arms hoist me to my feet. Damon, I vaguely notice, doesn't release his grip on my waist until I'm steady enough to stand without support.

I should thank him… but as I get my bearings I see that he's already walking away. Enzo has taken Damon's place, Care and Elena follow after us as he guides me off the torn, blue safety mats.

"Bonnie! What happened?"

Caroline grabs my water bottle and splashes some on my face, pouring whatever is left into my half-open mouth.

"I didn't get to eat anything for breakfast," I explain. "And then we were going over our history notes for that quiz at lunch. It's just a simple oversight."

"Well, _that_ won't happen again," Caroline declares with such finality that I don't argue. "We are going to multitask on testing days—snack _and_ study. And no test, no books. Just food."

"Look, you don't have to babysit me. Believe me, I won't skip a meal again. I don't want to be demoted."

"Yeah right," Elena says, a half-hearted smile ghosting over her lips. "Even with the dizzy spell, you're still the best flier on the team. Caro would have to be insane to bench you."

"This _is_ Caroline we're talking about."

"Good point," says Elena, nudging the blonde's shoulder.

The stern façade drops, and she pretends to be offended. "Hey! I'm not crazy, I'm… dedicated."

"Dedicatedly nuts," I say.

We share a laugh.

"Ladies, why don't I escort Bonnie home? I promise I'll see to it that she's safe. You guys have a practice to run." Enzo pulls me into his side protectively.

"Sure," Caroline agrees, dramatically winking. "Just make sure she calls us when she gets home."

"A video call," Elena clarifies. "So, we have visual proof she's not going to faint again."

"Whatever, _mom."_ I roll my eyes. It's ironic--the fact that two teenage girls are warier of leaving me alone with a guy than my parents.

"Feel better—got it? _Please_ eat dinner."

"I promise, I will." _If I don't fall asleep first._

"Good," my friends respond in unison, regarding me with their versions of an intimidating glare.

"Maybe I'll order takeout for us," Enzo suggests. "That way, you'll have an alibi."

"That's… nonsensical."

"I know, but I'll say anything for an order of kung pao chicken."

"Good to know," I mutter, turning away from the girlish giggles echoing throughout the gym. "But, then I'm going to bed and you're going to go to your house and refrain from conspiring against me with Elena and Caroline."

"Fair enough," he concedes, holding the door open for me. "I'll just consider myself lucky that we get to spend more time together, though hopefully our second date won't be preceded by another fainting spell."

I try to hide my smile with my hand, and then a sudden sense of apprehension takes over me. Attraction doesn't automatically create love or trust. I remind myself to not get ahead of everything, that my discomfort is telling me something, but I try to push it away. Ignore it as though it's inconsequential.

I'm _definitely_ liking Enzo.

And that's not a bad thing.

In fact, I think this is just what I needed.

* * *

Or maybe not.

As it turns out, I'm not really in the mood to eat Chinese food. Which I'm kind of disappointed about. I usually love moo shu pork—it's my dinner of choice on Friday nights because I know my parents meet up for their own meals after work. Today, however, it doesn't smell very appetizing.

It's probably residual wooziness, which shouldn't be a big shock to me, but a flash of worriment hits me anyway. I can't get sick; I have way too much to do school-wise. I can't let my grades falter. I won't have a shot in hell of getting into my dad's first-choice college if that happens.

_Not that he'll be the one going there._

Either way, it's not a lecture I want to be given.

I take another bite, stifling the wave of nausea that sweeps over me. I don't want Enzo to think I'm not happy he's here. That's becoming hard to do, though. I am seconds away from having to excuse myself and go to the bathroom.

"You okay, Bonnie?" Enzo asks gently.

I force a smile that is probably more of a grimace. "Of course, I'm just regretting not eating anything all day. Bad idea. Don't do it."

"I'm sorry you're not feeling well. Maybe we should've skipped the Chinese food."

"No—this is my favorite. Really." I take another bite to prove it.

He takes the takeout container from me. "You don't have to finish it. I'll just put this in the fridge so you can eat it later."

I watch as he gets up from the stool he'd been sitting on and walks over to the refrigerator. How could someone as kind as Enzo waste so much time with a jerk like Damon? I don't have a good answer.

He spots the memo pad on the door. "Is this your parent's work schedule?"

"Some of it," I reply. "Some of it's recreational."

"Wow, you must be by yourself a lot." I can't tell if he's surprised or excited about the observation.

"Yeah, it's just me, myself, and I most of the time. It gets kind of lonely…"

When he comes back to the counter, he is smiling. I wonder if the true scope of my lack of parental guidance has given him any ideas. Care would say it did, Elena would shake her head and call me oblivious, and if I'd been talking with them I would deny it.

From what I've seen in my role as a third-party observer when guys ask my best friends out, it's usually more straight-forward. I never have to guess _why_ they've approached us—it's written on their faces, in the way they move, their manner of speaking.

And seeing as I haven't had that kind of experience, I'm going to err on the side of no. Enzo referred to this as a date, so the interest _must_ be there. But not everyone fills the empty holes in their lives with shallow, physical companionship like Damon.

When Enzo's not around the influence of his friends, he certainly doesn't give off that vibe.

This is a relief—I'm not too keen on being that close to another person anytime soon. The vulnerability that comes with that kind of intimacy is too risky.

Too raw.

"You don't have to be alone all the time…"

"Are you saying you want to keep me company?" I chuckle uneasily, a cold sweat covering my face.

"Yes."

"You sure? I like to watch _The Bodyguard_ on repeat in my free time."

Enzo frowns slightly. "We'll have to pick a better movie, but yes I'd like to see you more often."

That's a bit of a let-down, but I guess it takes a special kind of person to appreciate the love story of Rachel Marron and Frank Farmer.

His phone goes off, filling the room with a shrill siren noise. He stares at the screen, not saying anything for a minute before he slides it into his back pocket. When he looks up at me, his mood has clearly shifted, a change he is trying—and failing—to mask.

This time, when he smiles, it doesn't feel authentic.

"What's wrong?"

"What?" he responds as if he didn't hear my question. A light bulb goes off a second later, and he elaborates. "Oh, it's nothing. Just Kai Parker. You know him?"

 _Sadly._ "Yes."

He's the one person who tops Damon in arrogance _and_ making bad life choices. I'm convinced he has no regard for the sanctity of human life. In fifth grade, he put his pet snake in our class hamster's tank. We all _adored_ that little rodent, who we lovingly named Buttercup. Then, he tried to make some kid promise to do his math homework for a week if he wanted Buttercup to survive.

Let's just say by the time he agreed to Kai's terms, the snake had a very hearty lunch.

Ever since then, I have this fantasy of a snake swallowing _him_ alive.

"He needs me to… help him torment Luke and Liv."

"Will you?" My tone makes it clear that I do not approve of Kai torturing his younger, twin siblings.

Enzo looks at me like I'm being ridiculous. "No, of course not! I'm going to save them."

"You're a gentleman, Enzo St. John." The corners of my mouth quirk upward.

"I try," he says lightheartedly. "Feel better, Bonnie." He grabs his wallet off the counter and walks through the living room. I loosen up a little when I hear the front door close. I should try to sleep this little bug off, but I have work to do.

So, resting will have to wait.

Well, technically, the homework will have to wait, too. As much as I'd hoped the urge to vomit would disappear once my food was out of my sight, it didn't. The scent lingers in the air as if I'm still eating it.

And it's _killing_ me. My guts are twisting in ways I didn't think possible. I rush out of the yellow monstrosity my mother claims is a kitchen and into the walk-in closet-sized bathroom on the other side of the first floor.

As I huddle on the floor, leaning over the toilet bowl, I curse myself for not trying to make it to the upstairs bathroom. That one is easily three times larger. It's also equipped with a huge claw-footed bathtub that I could use to prop myself up.

I have a sinking feeling I'll be in here for a while. And that—when I can finally leave—my body will be too stiff to move. I can only hope that I'll have some time to start my homework, but with the way my evening is going, I'm not going to hold my breath.


	6. Vertigo

* * *

**~Chapter Four~**

* * *

_Good and bad  
I swear I've had them both, they're overrated  
But is it fun  
When you get hold of one  
Some gone bad  
And some gone back  
Good ones all get taken_

_~Foo Fighters, Halo~_

* * *

I thought all I needed was rest. Well, rest _and_ better eating habits.

But neither of those things seem to be doing the trick. I'm still exhausted, despite my strict nine 'o clock bed-time. The dizziness hasn't gone away either, which leaves me wondering if I am suffering from some kind of rare food poisoning.

I've got a better handle on it, though. And by that, I mean I'm able to conceal my fatigued state from Elena and Caroline. As it turns out, the longer I feel like crap, the easier it is to work through it. I also don't have to keep the act up around Mom and Dad because they've been so busy lately that I haven't _seen_ them in two weeks (maybe more).

Dad has been spending evenings at his office—he's a manager at what I think is the nation's smallest marketing agency, so the majority of the campaigns fall on him (and his boss, but the way he talks it doesn't seem that way). And my mother is in charge of running the tiny science museum on the edge of town. According to their daily memos, I should continue to fend for myself.

Apparently, Mom has to orchestrate some new exhibit about… actually, I don't remember. I find her area of expertise so tedious that I've stopped reading her drawn-out explanations— _especially_ when they span several Post-It notes.

Why they think biophysics would be the thing I want to dedicate my life to studying; I have absolutely no clue.

But it's what _they_ want—and if I expect them to help me cover some of the costs of attending a prestigious college, then I have to be willing to major in a field they approve of.

It's how my father's parents dealt with his schooling, so the same applies to me. For some strange reason, since he never really speaks about his childhood. I assume that's why he took my mom's name and not vice versa.

But that doesn't mean "a parent doesn't know what is best for their child," or whatever Dad told me when I suggested going to school for English Lit or anthropology. "You want to maximize your success kiddo, trust me on this one."

I sigh in relief when the bell rings for lunch. Anatomy has been the bane of my existence lately. I hadn't been psyched to take this class, but it went from something I wasn't crazy about something so dull that I'm nearly falling asleep over my notes regarding frog dissection.

"Look alive, Judgy," Damon sneers as he walks past my desk.

I'm too tired to insult him. Too tired to even acknowledge him.

"You alright, Bennett?" he stops walking down the aisle and regards me with curiosity. "You look a little green. I could have told you that shoving your tongue down Enzo's throat would make you want to puke. Which says something because you don't really have a gag reflex."

"Shut up, Damon."

"That was weak. You usually have better comebacks than _that."_

I shove my incomplete notes into my bag. "Why do you care?"

"It's not that I _care_ ," he insists. "I just asked, you know, in case Elena needs reassurance."

"That's a shit excuse, Salvatore."

"Well obviously—I didn't think you'd be so boring. I can't give you good material if you don't give me anything to work with."

"Sorry to disappoint," I roll my eyes, exiting the classroom with hesitation. I don't actually want to eat—going to the cafeteria is a bad idea. My stomach twists painfully at the mere thought. However, spending another lunch period in a bathroom stall that smells of urine isn't appealing either.

I had thought walking away would end my pointless exchange with Damon, but he has other plans.

"You have fun with… whatever awkward thing you're trying to accomplish by standing there. I'm going to get out of here." he heads off in the direction of the front doors.

Surprisingly, his flagrant disregard for school rules is what catches my attention. "You can't just _leave,_ you idiot. You have to have permission!"

"How have you not figured out that it's better just do what you want and not ask for permission?" Damon calls over his shoulder.

"It's _not!"_

He turns around, amused. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Prove it, Buzzkill Bennett. Take another walk on the dark side—skip your last class."

"I don't have to prove anything to you!" I'm embarrassed by the exasperation in my tone. What he's doing is obvious and yet I'm still letting him get under my skin.

"Suit yourself. Enjoy the fish sticks, then."

My feet are moving before I give myself the chance to change my mind. Damon is walking slow on purpose like he already knows I will ditch my afternoon classes with him. That's not good—I hope he doesn't get the wrong impression. I'm _not—_ in any way, shape, or form—trying to convey that I agree with him.

I'm only doing this because the thought of eating three-day-old fish sticks truly makes me want to hurl. I can feel my breakfast climbing up throat as two freshman pass by me on their way to the courtyard, with their trays of them, accompanied by a small cup of peaches.

"I'm going with you as a form of self-preservation. Not because you implied I'm a goody-two-shoes."

Damon just smiles in response as we slink past the main office and out the front doors.

"So… what exactly did you plan on doing?"

Damon shrugs casually as he gets into the car, slipping sunglasses over his eyes.

I set my belongings in the back seat. "I'm surprised you're not letting Rebekah tag along. She acts like you guys are joined at the hips." I shake my head when I realize the double-meaning in my words. "I mean, conjoined twins. She acts like you guys are _conjoined._ "

"That sounds like the plot of a bad porn movie."

I glare at him, buckle my seatbelt, and fold my arms over my chest. "Exactly."

"It's casual, Bennett. You make it sound like we're getting married—and I'm pretty sure I'd rather sell my soul to the Devil for a Jonas Brothers CD than do that. Wait, I'd rather marry an actual Jonas brother." He pulls out of his parking spot, drives out of the lot, and makes a left—which is the quickest route out of Mystic Falls.

"You'd have to _have_ a soul to sell, to begin with. And where are we going? I thought you said you had no plans. Which, by the way, doesn't surprise me. I don't know why I even asked."

He groans, and then says—like he's explaining something simple to a child— "First rule of truancy—don't go to places where you'll be recognized."

I don't have anything to say. It's solid logic (something I wasn't aware Damon had the ability to use).

"I'm waiting…"

"For?"

Damon lifts his glasses and flashes me the most arrogant look he can manage. "You to admit that I'm right."

"I'd rather drown in a vat of acid, you douchebag."

"Aw, Bonster, that's sweet, but flattery won't get you out of this one."

"Why are you so irritating?"

"Why are you so judgmental?"

I turn away, staring out the window indignantly. "Have you ever stopped to think that maybe I'm not the judgmental one? That maybe, _just_ maybe, I'm the one with normal standards? And that everyone else just expects you to be an ass, so they don't even bother to hope for anything else?"

" _Ouch._ That one cut deep, Bennett. But what about you? Didn't you like just being _you_ —doing what _you_ wanted and not caring about anyone else's opinion?"

 _A little bit, yeah._ "Life isn't all fun and games, Damon."

"I don't know, my life is _very_ fun and full of games. I'm a big fan of Scrabble." Of _course,_ he can't give me a serious response.

"I don't know how Enzo puts up with you," I mutter, and when I see how he grips the steering wheel tighter, I feel a little guilty.

I hadn't known that he would react so negatively to the mention of his friendship with my…whatever Enzo is to me. It seems that Damon didn't either. He opens his mouth, pauses, and goes completely silent.

"I don't know how _I_ put up with _him,"_ he says suddenly. "It's always Bonnie, Bonnie, Bonnie. He never shuts the fuck up about you. The way he talks, you'd think you were some kind of angel."

"He's smarter than I thought," I retort, and the smugness in my voice makes me sound like Damon.

"If by smart, you mean fucking delusional—then yeah, I guess we agree on something."

"Damon, honestly, if you hate me so much, why did you invite me to come with you?"

"I think you answered your own question."

"Not really."

"Do you do this with Enzo?" There's a hint of frustration in his voice, but I pretend like I don't hear it.

I honestly don't understand what he means. "What is 'this' exactly?"

Damon chuckles at my confusion. "You know—the schtick where you act like you're above, well, _anything_ involving fun."

"No—"

"—while pretending that you're the head of the morality patrol, policing everyone else's values, even though you're just _dying_ to do something _bad."_

"I don't do that—it's not my fault that I have to babysit you every time you fuck something up."

"If you think babysitting is the same as initiating sex. Then your problems go way deeper than mine."

"Whatever Freud… the point is… I don't have to… _be_ the morality police with Enzo—he actually has his own morals."

"And you don't think _Lorenzo_ will fuck everything up?"

"Not from what I've seen."

"What _have_ you seen?"

"Careful Damon, you're starting to sound like a jealous boyfriend. But nothing… yet; we've only been on a few dates. We kissed. That's it. Not that it's any of your business." I tack the last sentence on as an afterthought.

"It's not," he says quietly, so low that I can just barely hear him.

We are quiet for the rest of the drive. Granted, we are only on the road for ten more minutes. Damon takes the next exit, travels about half a mile, and turns into a tiny shopping center.

There are very few cars in the lot. Aside from Damon's Camaro, there is a black Charger, a red station wagon, and a beat-up minivan with a huge scratch across the front. It's almost a ghost town. I assume it's from the time of day, however, and not because every storefront looks deserted and run-down. Well, nearly deserted. I spot one shopper in what looks like a second-hand store that sells baby clothes and furniture.

Our destination is right next to _Bargains for Babies._ Damon remarks that the store's name makes it sound like a black-market child auction, and while the comment horrifies me, a part of me wonders if that's the reason for the lack of customers.

 _Bad marketing is the death of a business_ is Rudy Bennett's favorite thing to say when we pass hole-in-the-wall eateries and seedy storefronts. He's usually overstating things, but I know that if he were to see this place, he'd go on and on about how terrible everything looks, that he just _knows_ about this stuff, and how he'd use it as a springboard to justify all of his opinions—every single one, even those that have nothing to do with his line of work.

Thankfully, the diner that Damon has chosen to enter appears much nicer. Clean floors, newly reupholstered booths, a jukebox on the opposite side of the entrance, and décor that makes me feel like I've stepped into an episode of _Happy Days._

It's surprisingly casual, which doesn't exactly scream _Damon_ , but he's also a bit of an enigma—you never really know everything about him. Until we spent quality time together, I didn't know that he liked to keep people guessing so much.

He leads me over to a table that has orange, vinyl seats. Each booth has the standard napkin holder, salt and pepper, and red and yellow squeeze bottles filled with ketchup and mustard. However, every table showcases something specific from the '50s. Ours happens to be decked out with pictures of good-looking young twentysomethings dressed vintage fashion statements—poodle skirts, leather jackets, greased hair.

Maybe Damon doesn't look as out of place as I first thought.

An older woman comes over to us, in a pale pink dress, white apron, and sensible white shoes. Her face is lined with wrinkles but her brown eyes are shining brightly, even more so when she sees Damon.

"Look at you!" she exclaimed, reaching out to pinch him on the cheek. "You look more and more like Lily every time I see you!"

"Just in the shape of my face," he protests, sounding—dare I say it—bashful.

"The spirit, too," she argues. I decide that I like this woman, whoever she is because that is something I could picture Grams saying.

"Alright—the spirit, too."

"Damn right…" she trails off, turning to look at me. "Your girlfriend is gorgeous, sweetie. What's she doing with you?"

"No clue, Milly."

"You're lucky to have her," The woman—Milly—states matter-of-factly. "What's your name, dear?"

"I'm Bonnie—it's nice to meet you, Milly."

"Thank you, sweetie. Your name suits you very well. I think my favorite great-nephew has finally found a keeper."

"Thanks, Aunt Milly," Damon says. "I'm glad _someone_ thinks I can get something right."

"You're related?" I ask, mostly because I don't think I should comment on Damon's ratio of correctness.

"Kind of."

Milly laughs and it sounds quiet as if she's spent so much of her life laughing that her vocal cords don't have the strength to do so with fervor any longer. "His mother—Lillian—was best friends with my daughter—Ruthanne. They were inseparable. Ruthanne is his Godmother. Lily used to bring the boys here all the time. Now Damon carries on the tradition—he _used_ to stop by every month or so, but it seems he's been busy. I see why now, and I forgive him. Love, especially young love, can be all-consuming."

"Oh, I—uh, I'm—" I chirp, and I can feel the heat rushing to my cheek. "I'm—

"She's ready to eat, Aunt Milly," Damon interjects quickly. "Can we order? Pretty please?"

"Of course, honey, will you have the usual?"

"You know me so well."

When it's my turn to order, Milly takes a small notepad from her pocket. "And what would you like, Bonnie?"

I grab a menu from the end of the table. I hadn't realized that bickering with my asshole of a lunch date made me work up an appetite. "I'll just have a chicken sandwich."

"Everything on it?"

I try not to wrinkle my nose when I see that "everything" consists of pickles and raw onions, which will make the rest of my meal smell just like them. "No thank you."

"You've got it, sweetie. I'll have everything right out for you. Do you want anything to drink?"

"Soda," I reply, hoping that the extra caffeine will give me enough of a boost to allow me to do my homework tonight. "Please."

"I'll have water, Aunt Milly."

"As if you need to tell me," she answers, rolling her eyes in a comically exaggerated manner.

When she's out of earshot, I take the opportunity to make fun of Damon's sudden change in temperament. "I didn't know you could be _nice._ "

"I'm a complicated man," he replies as if my jab doesn't bother him in the slightest. "Besides, look at that woman—I don't think Ed Kemper could be mean to her."

"Damon—have you ever tried being _appropriate_ in public?"

"Once. It was boring, so I stopped."

He says this with a look of complete sincerity. Like it never occurred to him that some things might have precedence over his amusement. Nothing Damon does is ever for the overall good, not once have I witnessed him putting another person above himself. Not even Stefan. How can two people who share the same blood be so intrinsically different?

A few moments later, Milly returns with our beverages, a huge grin still plastered on her face, sparing me the difficulty of understanding the inner-workings of his twisted mind.

"You better be good to her," Milly threatens, wagging a finger at Damon sternly. "If you aren't, I'll tell Mehri and she'll set you straight."

"Mehri?"

"My granddaughter—she used to give him a run for his money whenever she caught him messing with Stefan. One time, she scared him with a beetle. Shoved it right in his face and he ran away crying."

I burst out in laughter. A true, genuine laughter. I can't stop myself and I don't know why I find this so entertaining. The thought of a toddler-sized Damon running away from a bug is the funniest story I've heard in months.

When Milly leaves to retrieve our food from the kitchen, Damon shoots me a look of annoyance. "Shut up—I was six. And it almost bit me."

I take a deep breath. My sides have started to ache. "Sorry… really… it just… I haven't… laughed like that since… well, the beach, I guess."

"You mean when we had our portrait done by the caricature artist?"

This gives me pause. It's true—I haven't felt this carefree since the last time Damon and I hung out. The thought startles me, a surge of unease pooling in my belly, spreading down my arms, all the way down to my fingertips.

The last time I had any fun was when I was with _him—_ my worst nightmare—and the undeniability of it all absolutely terrifies me.


	7. The Best Medicine

* * *

**~Chapter Five~**

* * *

_Strange days have found us  
And through their strange hours  
We linger alone  
Bodies confused  
Memories misused  
As we run from the day  
To a strange night of stone_

_~The Doors, Strange Days~_

* * *

I am not looking forward to the next six hours.

After spending the past few hours with my head in the toilet, the last thing I want to do is take a history test or give a presentation on _Pride and Prejudice._ But my ninety-five percent average in both classes depend on these assignments, so I _have_ to go.

Care and Elena don't feel the same way, but I'm hoping to avoid them. At least until after the sixth period when I'll have completed both projects. I should be able to do this with ease—Caroline has been playing the long game with Tyler, though she does it _constantly,_ which negates her whole approach. Elena, as per usual, is busy with Stefan. She's been packing on the PDA so much that even Caroline has told her to cool it.

She hasn't, but I'm more than happy to use her distraction to my advantage. Whenever we _are_ together, she'll ask me if I'm alright, if I felt better than I did the day before. The answer is no. It's gotten worse. Unfortunately, the days of her believing my reassurances are numbered.

Mostly because acting like everything is fine, that I'm not crumbling under the pressures of life, has gotten much more difficult with my upset stomach. Despite my earlier conviction, once you've spent a solid week barfing at the mere mention of food, you tend to look a little haggard. I was foolish to think that things would improve on their own.

I'm clearly not that lucky.

On the bright side, I'll get to see Enzo today. An everyday occurrence—one that's been the silver-lining amongst all of the chaos. He's been so understanding of my overwhelming schedule, so mindful of how not-myself I'm feeling. It's nice to finally have someone to support me. Not that my friends are unsupportive; they're just not present enough to see the toll our last year of high school is taking on me.

I go over the talking points for my presentation at a table in the courtyard, flipping through the index cards robotically. _Themes, important quotes, timelines, summaries, character studies…_ every section is burned into my brain by my second run-through, but my stomach is churning in that familiar way again, so I focus on what is in front of me so intently that my nausea fades into the background.

I've never had an issue with public speaking. I'm actually pretty good at it. I've never experienced stage fright before, the shakiness of my hands and legs, the dry mouth. My penchant for biting off more than I can chew hasn't ever been a cause for joy. I got stressed, I got tired and grumpy, and bitter, but it's never impacted my ability to complete a task and do it well.

Now, I'm liable to unravel at the slightest of provocations.

I tap the cards against the table, securing them with a rubber band. I'm just about to leave when a shadowy figure blocks the sunlight that had been shining down on me.

"Bonnie, I'm glad I found you," Enzo says, offering me his hand.

"I'm glad you found me, too." My fingers intertwine with his automatically.

The school-girl reaction I had when I first admitted to myself that I might like Lorenzo St. John in a not-so-platonic way has passed. Now it's just normal. I feel like Bonnie when I'm with him. Sure, I'm not at the top of my game (that is painstakingly obvious) but there isn't any added pressure when he's around. So, I don't have to fake cheerfulness. I can be woozy, tired Bonnie, and not have to obsess over how he will react.

Because he's Enzo.

And that's _nice._ It's easy.

It's really weird because, in my experience, nothing is ever so simple— _especially_ if it seems that way.

"Are you ready?" he asks, nodding at my pile of notecards. "Not that I even have to ask—of course, you are."

"Ye of so much faith," I reply, tone light and joking.

Enzo scoffs. "Says the girl who is situated comfortably at the top of the class."

"Stef is right behind me," I remind him, "And he's got the advantage of skipping the tenth grade. The school newspaper has already labeled him a boy genius."

He presses his lips to my forehead. "Eh. My money's still on you. He's got the disadvantage of having Damon as a study partner."

I stop short, uncomfortable over the twinge of anger in my chest at Enzo's insinuation. Damon's an ass, a jerk, careless, short-tempered, and full of himself, but he's far from stupid. And this negativity is coming from his best friend. That fact doesn't mesh well with my moral fiber.

"Damon isn't dumb," I say sharply. "He's a lot of things, but dumb isn't on that list—trust me, I've known him since I was three."

"I never said he was," Enzo says, trying to hide his surprise. "I was just joking, Bon."

"I know. I'm sorry—I've been so—"

I'm cut off when he kisses me squarely on the lips. The irritation I had been feeling melts away, leaving me thinking that I overreacted. "… I'm sorry…again… I'm being sensitive. Can we just forget about it?"

"What are we talking about again?" Enzo does a great job feigning confusion as he holds the door open for me.

"You know, I don't even remember." I chuckle theatrically.

"Must not have been important then," he says with a wink.

"No, not at all."

* * *

I finally make a point of finding Elena and Caroline in the cafeteria. I just finished my history test (which I think I aced) and the anxiety I felt over presenting my book report has gone down considerably. I was the first person to stand in front of the class to speak, and while I assumed that my insides would stop doing acrobatics the second I returned to my desk, I'm just glad that it isn't affecting my ability to sit with my friends.

"How are you doing, Bon?"

I smile at Care and it doesn't feel as forced as it has been. "Better- _ish_. How's Tyler? Did you finally put him out of his misery and tell him that you're head over heels for him?"

" _No_ —I was saving that for the end of summer bash. Well, I _obviously_ want him to say it first, but I'll just give him a push in the right direction if I have to. I won't though. It'll be uber-romantic if he gets the hint. We can sneak away and kiss under the stars—and it'll be perfect."

That seems like something Care would demand of a boyfriend: fairytale perfection.

"Is Tyler still hosting the after-party this year?" Elena inquires. "He did a great job with the last one."

"Yup. He said I'll be the guest of honor." Caroline's blue eyes sparkle.

I'm happy for her—I can't be anything but positively gleeful that my two favorite people are having the year they wanted. However, I am worried I won't be up to attending the Lockwood party this time. The end of the summer bash is the school's way of giving us teens a chance to say goodbye to the freedom we had before we came back to school. The after-party is a way for us to let loose, unsupervised, in a mansion. There's always plenty of alcohol, weed, and make-out sessions in the many guest rooms in the Lockwood home.

It doesn't live up to the hype of a Klaus/Rebekah shindig—specifically the one they throw during spring break—but it comes fairly close.

Or so I've heard. I've never actually attended one. The closest I've come to that would be in tenth grade, when I got a drunken call from Elena, begging me to drive out of town to pick them up.

I did.

I returned to an empty house again. Mom and Dad had gone to visit my mother's younger brother. My Uncle Marshall.

Barely licensed me had felt guilty for taking my father's Chevy Tahoe without their knowledge, but I would do anything for Care and Elena.

At the last after-party, Stefan and I were the only ones who abstained from drinking, so together we were able to get them home with far less of an issue.

Knowing what it's like to deal with the two of them inebriated at the same time, I can't—in good faith—leave Stefan to handle it alone. What kind of friend—and sister—would I be if I abandoned them?

Too much like the judgmental bitch Damon pinned me as. And, well, just _bad._ Sometimes you have to put your needs below the needs of those you love. I'm not the center of the universe—I'm not even the center of my own personal world, but it's okay. Someone's got to be the voice of reason. Even if it means giving up some of the sleep your body desperately needs.

Not many people my age would come to that conclusion and that causes a sense of pride to swell in my chest. Hell, not many older, wiser people have the ability to do that.

"Miss guest of honor, can you get me the details?"

"Are you saying that _you_ want to go this year?"

"No, but I'm going to anyway," and then, I add, as to not make them feel bad, "Who knows? It might be fun."

It was with Damon—the _drinking_ portion of our evening. I don’t like to think about how much fun the other half of the night was. Not since I saw Rebekah shoving her tongue down his throat weeks later.

Elena's mouth drops open at my admission. "Wow, you really _are_ feeling better."

 _Ish,_ I think indignantly, _better-ish. There's a difference._

"Told you—now tell me the information. Where and when? And as the guest of honor, did you sign me and Elena up to procure beer illegally?" I pull my memo book out of my bag's side pocket and take the pen from behind my ear, ready to record Care's response, which I'll put on my phone's calendar later.

"The Lockwood Estate—duh, and September 15th. And no, but are you offering?"

"No-p-e," I pop the ending sound, which is a quirk I picked up from Damon.

Elena must have caught that. When I glance up, her lips are pursed in a questioning manner, eyes trained on the center of my face. If she wants to grill me about my gaff, she chooses not to do so. Maybe she realizes that it's a common manner of speaking, maybe she thinks she's being overly observant, maybe she concludes it doesn't matter.

Whatever the reason, I'm just glad she has it.

"And we should meet up beforehand…" Care is saying, talking faster than a normal person (who doesn't know her like we do) could process. "To get ready. Bring your best outfits—just not that purple monstrosity."

"But I think that top is cute," Elena grumbles, folding her arms over one another.

" _Or_ that hippy sheet you call a dress." This barb is directed at me.

"Fine, whatever. But I'm not wearing that band-aid of a leather skirt you always want me to wear."

"Deal." She shakes my hand firmly, like a lawyer who just settled out of court.

"Or that tube top," Elena adds. "That's a fashion faux-pas just waiting to happen."

"It's _supposed_ to be like that—the whole point of it is so you can flash hot guys 'accidentally,'" There is a heavy emphasis on air quotes.

"Not happening," says Elena.

"Fine."

Their voices become distant as Elena rattles off a few other conditions she wants Caroline to abide by if she wants consent to turn us into life-sized Barbie dolls. I am already starting to regret accepting the unspoken invitation. Staying up until dawn breaks, completely sober in a sea of teenagers that reek of booze and vomit is not my idea of fun. I haven't even made it through _this_ week yet and I'm exhausted. I'm scared to think about how I'll fare next week with schoolwork, cheer practice, and two parties.

I consider the risks of laying my head on the table and shutting my eyes for five minutes—the germs, the stares, the concerned best friends, or three more hours of not getting a break? If I were in the right frame of mind, the winner would be a no-brainer: the cons far outweigh the benefits… but I'm so tired…

_Fuck it._

I am balling up my cardigan, so I'll at least have a barrier between me and the stickiness of first period lunch, and also a fluffy makeshift pillow, when I notice Enzo approaching us from his usual spot in the corner of the cafeteria.

I would never seek him out during this time of day; girls typically flock around that area. Juniors and seniors vying for his (and Damon's) attention. It's died down since Rebekah started acting like Damon's personal bodyguard, but I think I want to be around her less than all of the others.

I really don't like her. Neither does Elena, which is actually more of a relief than it usually is. Typically, I try to defend Damon’s girlfriends against Elena’s smear campaign. Hell, I even tried to play Devil's advocate when it came to Rebekah. I just put most of the blame on my favorite jackass, but ever since our mini-road trip, I find myself directing more vitriol at her.

I know that's unfair; I tell myself that I need to get a fucking grip. Rebekah had no way of knowing that Damon and I slept together, after all. But she's the real-life embodiment of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde—normal when her boyfriend is paying attention and a raging bitch whenever he isn't. It's not difficult to guess which version of Rebekah is front-and-center most of the time.

Enzo slides into the gap between Elena and me before we have the chance to greet him.

"Hey, Bon." He slings a toned arm around my shoulder.

"Hey," I say with a grin that I hope reaches my eyes.

"Enzo! So nice to see you. Bon wouldn't shut up about you."

I laugh nervously because it isn't true because if he asks me what I was saying about him later, I will have to come up with an explanation for Care's statement.

And I'm really not in the mood for relaying a half-assed story or disappointing him with the truth. _If_ he even cares about gossip that much.

" _Caroline,"_ I snap through clenched teeth. "I was not… but I'm glad you're here… obviously… I just…" _fuck,_ I'm rambling _again._

"We were discussing our outfits—for the end-of-summer bash and Ty's party. Bonnie wants help with that." She covers her mouth with her hand and stage-whispers, "She may be a practical genius, but she's not that savvy in the wardrobe department."

I roll my eyes.

Enzo shoots me a charming glance before he addresses my blonde-haired friend. "Well, as much as I'd love to see her in something shorter, I have to disagree about the comment on her clothes. I like her style. It fits her.

A lump forms in my throat as I immediately pull up a memory that has nothing to do with him. Milly had said that about my name, and somehow—despite only knowing her for a few minutes—I knew she meant it.

But the thought of Milly will lead me down a path that ends with Damon. Not that it's a _problem,_ per se. It is just an odd reaction when Enzo—my potential boyfriend—is next to me. It's even stranger when I pair the fact that Damon's seen my boobs and Enzo hasn't. It feels like my story is ass-backward and belly up.

But whatever. What he doesn't know won't hurt him—that's my justification for not offering this particular tidbit, but I _know_ it's not like that, it's much more complicated. It wasn't as bad when Elena would be the only injured party, but with Enzo's involvement comes more unrest. And guilt, though logically I haven't committed a crime—but I'm perpetuating an omission due to several complex relationships.

That still makes a person culpable.

I'm going crazy.

The realization hits me like a ton of bricks. Lack of sleep and proper nutrients has driven me to insanity.

Damon and I can be on good terms, friendly terms, without sharing our secret. Right? Those two things aren't mutually exclusive; they can co-exist.

"Thanks," I tell Enzo.

"You're welcome," he replies, pausing. "Since you're going to the party, does that mean you'll be my date?"

I nod. "Sure."

"Good. It would be weird if I showed up to a social event without my girlfriend."

Caroline squeals. Elena claps her hand together in glee. I attempt to fight against my fatigue in order to voice my happiness at his declaration. I no longer have to lay awake, battling waves of nausea, asking myself _what are we?_ Maybe I won't feel so drained now that the mystery is solved.

But there's a thought in my head, tugging my relief away like I'm not supposed to feel that way yet, that I am still missing a few puzzle pieces.

So, this illness will not be eradicated. No matter how many times I tell myself otherwise, I get the feeling that Enzo isn't the cause of my woes and overwhelming physical symptoms.

But he's damn good medicine.


	8. The Consequences of Rebellion

* * *

**~Chapter Six~**

* * *

_A teenage bride with a baby inside  
Getting high on information  
And buy me a star on the boulevard  
It's Californication_

_~Red Hot Chili Peppers, Californication~_

* * *

Everything has gotten progressively worse.

Each day is another battle. I fight against the desperation I feel when my alarm goes off, try to withstand the assault brought on by thought of eating, and struggle to keep afloat when it comes to my A.P. courses.

I look like a shell of a person. A fact I'm reminded of as soon as I step in front of the mirror. The bags under my—now dull—green eyes have bags; my hair has been such a nuisance lately that I chose to style it a bit shorter (the stares and worried remarks from Care and Elena became way too tiresome to deflect). That doesn't even _touch_ the bloating I've noticed in my face and mid-section, which I assume is from stress.

I miss the Bonnie who could handle everything, the Bonnie who never let her problems take over her life, the Bonnie who Grams would refer to as her pride and joy—a living reflection of Sheila Bennett's younger years.

And it scares me.

What if the old me never comes back? What if I go through the motions of the life my parents wanted for me? Is this my future? Will I just turn into someone who lives to fulfill everyone else's goals?

My mind, gut, and heart are all in agreement about this one. In short, yes. I know that if I just do whatever my family and friends want; I will lose all the agency I have always been so proud of.

I splash my face with cold water and breathe in deeply. Tonight, is the school-sanctioned dance and Tyler's excuse for getting drunk and doing God knows what. Tonight, is the first date where Enzo and I will be a couple in the eyes of our peers.

That last part should make me happy. I like Enzo. A lot. I just don't have the energy to _act_ like it. And I need to do my best on that front. Enzo's pretty excited about this evening and he's been so understanding that I feel I owe it to be the Bonnie I was with Damon.

The fun girl. The sharp-witted girl. The girl who is relaxed and up for just about anything—even before the bourbon was a factor. He deserves to see me at my best.

So, I'll have to soldier through this endless chaos that I'll witness later, I'll have to at least pretend that I've got it in me to let go. There shouldn't be too much difference between _doing_ and _feeling_. It also stands to reason that if one does something long enough, they will actually begin to enjoy it.

Conditioning.

I'll condition myself to like attending get-togethers like Tyler's.

It sounds kind of dumb when I put it in those terms, but at least there's some scientific research saying it might work. Pathetic yet doable.

After I finish washing my face, I step into the shower.

I jump as the cold water hits my back, relieved when I start to feel awake and alert. Several cans of soda, thermoses of coffee, and a five-hour energy will hopefully aid me in maintaining consciousness until my head hits my pillow around midnight.

Because there's no way I'm going to let Caroline tell me we should stay out later. Also, I plan on stopping Elena's pitiful protests to Stefan before they start. The ones that begin with _but Steffykins, the party isn't over yet_ and end in her either puking on her own shoes or on the side of the road after I've driven halfway to her house—a fifteen minute drive in heavy traffic; an eight minute drive in the middle of the night.

_See? That's an awesome plan. Decent bedtime, here I come._

I dress in a flowy t-shirt and a pair of leggings that used to be a little loose around my hips. The water I'm retaining has made wearing jeans a bothersome task. And lately, that seems to be extending to skirts and dresses with zippers and little give. Shorts with everything but elastic waistbands are a no-go as well.

I never thought I'd miss having wardrobe choices until they became limited.

The sky outside is no longer the in-between shade of dark blue before the sun rises. My wall clock (which used to be in Grams living room and is made to look like a sun dial) is ticking away, inching toward the six-thirty marker faster than I'm used to.

_Time to go._

The rest of the house is empty. Mom and Dad left about forty minutes prior; their daily memo taped to the fridge instead of on the coffee table in the other room. I'm a bit surprised to see that this note doesn't have any appointments listed on it. Instead it reads:

_Don't forget breakfast, Bonnie Bear. We have peanut butter breakfast bars in the pantry. We love you and we hope you have fun at the dance!  
-Mom and Dad_

Wow. I don't know what to think about their message at first. The fact that they saw that my box of cereal is unopened is unexpected. They must have also picked up the snack bars at the grocery store because I haven't bought them in months. They wanted to make sure I could eat while heading to school or packing my book bag. It's… sweet. Love in the Bennett household is expressed through words for the most part. Actions—like this one—are few and far between.

And I'm used to it—words have meaning for a reason—I know they care. It's why they work so hard, why they push me in certain directions academically, but their thoughtfulness makes my eyes misty.

I mean, they even remembered that I would be gone for the night. Their schedules are so jam-packed that, even when they know I have an appointment or cheerleading practice, they always get mixed up on the days and times.

I stick the Post-It inside one of my folders and throw three peanut butter granola bars in my tote bag. All my standing around has taken up any time I actually had to eat, so I'd have to do so during my fifteen-minute commute.

And it's with this renewed sense of happiness that I begin the more difficult aspects of my day.

Sadly, it only lasts until I stop by my locker on my way to anatomy.

_What were you thinking, Bennett?_

My good mood hangs on until I read the day-planning app I have downloaded onto my phone. I haven't utilized it in a while—in fact, I had been so overwhelmed that I turned off the notifications when the constant beeping rung in my ears long after it actually stopped.

I only decided to check it today because I thought it might help me feel more prepared, that I could take the demands of my schedule in stride.

Well, I had been wrong. So very and totally _wrong._

It doesn't happen all that often—until lately. But by God, when I make a mistake, it's a big one. An error so colossal that my entire future explodes in front of me like a bomb. You know, like the stock footage they use on sitcoms to illustrate how the main character ruins everything.

Except the feeling is magnified _at least_ ten times.

My reminders are as follows:

_Turn in thesis statement for English  
Math homework due on Monday  
Meet Care/Elena for dance party prep  
End of summer bash at five  
Party at eight_

That is fine. I knew I'd find those activities somewhere on my calendar. What I _wasn't_ prepared to see is located in the section titled _missed events._

 _Period_.

My stomach falls to my feet and I have to grab my locker door to keep myself from collapsing on the tiled floor. My mouth is dry, a giant lump lodged in my throat. I missed my period. I don't click on the icon for more details. With my hand shaking uncontrollably, I toss my cell into my locker. Maybe if I can make the vehicle for my stressors go away, then the stressors themselves are not real.

Except that's not how problems are solved.

I close my eyes, attempt to rationalize myself out of the trouble I have gotten myself into. That Damon _helped_ me get into.

It's just overexertion. That can cause amenorrhea. Stress and over-exercising. Doing flips and tricks aren't as easy as they had been. I'm overdoing it. That's all.

Only that doesn't account for the puking, strange appetite, and weight gain. Though it _could_ be delayed PMS-induced bloating…

I'm sure if I tried hard enough, I could explain those symptoms away, too. But deep down, I know that lying to myself won't do any good. I _know_ why Mother Nature has allowed me to forgo the cramps, the bleeding, and need to stock up on tampons and chocolate bars.

I'm pregnant.

I immediately scold myself. _You think. Right now, it's nothing more than an educated guess, a nightmare you can still wake up from._

My body starts to go numb.

Before I know what I'm doing, I am standing in front of the door leading to the nurse's office. My plan, though I haven't truly thought everything through, is simple: get sent home (using bad cramps as my excuse) and go to the drug store. Procure a test, drink a gallon of Sunny-D, ala the opening scenes of _Juno,_ and pee on said test.

And get a negative result.

Easy. Doable—I hope.

But hope doesn't solve problems either.

* * *

I return to a vacant home, something I've never been so relieved about before. The couch cushions are as perfect as the day my mom purchased it, the blank television that reminds me of a store model, the quiet yellow kitchen with a spotless sink and an open box of granola bars on the table.

If it weren't for the snack bars I left out, it would look like no one lived here. Like an abandoned castle straight out of a _Scooby-Doo_ episode, minus the dust and cobwebs.

I sigh and take my purchase into the bathroom.

My mother has always been big on themes. Whenever she feels like changing any room in the house, she selects the most outrageous ideas to build upon. One day, she saw this small treasure chest at the furniture store and decided to make a sunken ship the design scheme for the upstairs bathroom. The shower curtain is covered in fish and the walls are painted a deep blue.

I've always hated the design, but now it seems totally appropriate.

A shipwreck.

The entire remainder of my life may very well rest on these little wands—and it will most likely be a negative (or in this case, positive) result.

I take all three tests out of the bag. Each one cost me about fifteen dollars—which pretty much left me with about five bucks in my wallet. I shudder to think about how much more money I'll have to spend if all three of these things turn out to be positive.

One by one, I tear each package open and follow the directions, acting on each step carefully.

The instructions tell me to wait five minutes for each of them, so I set the timer for four and go to my room, flopping face-down on my bed, resisting the urge to scream into my throw pillows.

I take several deep breaths. And then the alarm on my phone goes off, filling my bedroom with the instrumental version of _Hallelujah ._

It feels like I'm walking to my death as I proceed to go into the bathroom and peer over the sink, where three pregnancy tests lie.

_A plus sign._

_Positive._

_Pregnant._

I pick up each stick and stare at it in complete shock.

This can't be happening. It doesn't add up... I only had sex once! One time! I shouldn't be pregnant, I think before I act, I don't make giant mistakes like this... I stopped thinking for one second and the worst possible thing occurs.

I'm having a baby— _Damon Salvatore's_ baby.

And I'm now officially scared.

I press my hand to my stomach... oh God... what the hell am I going to do? I don't have a good answer. My mind is reeling, the bathroom a cage. My fingers slacken and each wand hits the hardwood flooring, all of them landing in different spots.

I try to keep all of the potential scenarios out of my head as I get off the floor and collect the pregnancy tests from the various places they fell when I dropped them. One had been on the rug, another had gone by the door, and the third had slid between the toilet and the sink.

My attempts aren't good enough, though. The last several hours play in slow-motion as each stick hits the bottom of the trashcan.

The note on the fridge, the alert on my phone, shopping for pregnancy tests, Damon.

_~~X~~_

_Damon._

_I had seen him at the CVS—even though school hadn't let out yet. I was coming out of the family planning aisle and he was headed in the opposite direction—to the pharmacy. I immediately shoved the basket of pregnancy tests behind my back and held my breath, praying that he didn't notice me or what I was going to buy._

_He didn't look my way._

_I hurried over to the checkout line and booked it out of there so fast that it felt like my heart was going to explode from exertion._

_~~X~~_

That's when I lose it completely. I collapse on the ground—reminiscent of my meltdown at school—and sob and sob until I run out of tears. I back into the wall at some point and the rest is a blur.

I collect myself, walking over to the sink, taking the First Response boxes in my hands. I tear each one into tiny pieces, hoping it will be enough to destroy the evidence.

I grab the decorative tissue box from the counter.

I'm sure my real intention was to blow my nose or something, but a better idea pops into my head. I rip the tissues from the box one by one and cover the tests, making sure they're virtually invisible to anyone that comes into the bathroom.

"That should do it," I say to myself. I mean to sound chipper. Unfortunately, I think I sound more depressed than I did when I was crying.

I take a deep breath and look around the room. I think I've covered everything. It looks as neat and orderly as it did an hour ago. And no one know what's going on... well, unless I include the creepy yellow fish that are painted on the walls. Thankfully, I don't really like to advertise my business—even to my best friends.

I'm basically… almost… kind of… alone in this.

And there it is.

I look at my stomach, which doesn't appear to be any different than it was two months ago. My brows knit together, I find it hard to believe that my body could have changed so much in such a short amount of time, but I couldn't deny that I definitely _felt_ it. There had been something off about me ever since we got back from the beach and, if what I remember from health is right, the timing would have been perfect for conception to happen. And if it weren't, well, sperm could survive for days inside the uterus.

The next time I speak aloud, I address my frazzled reflection.

"I- I don't know what I want to do..." I stammer. I shake my head. "I can't... I can't do this."

But you _have_ to do something. _Think Bonnie, think!_

_Do you want to get rid of it? Do you want an abortion?_

_Maybe_... I contemplate bitterly. It's an option, right? Probably the easiest. Except, if it were that easy, I'm sure everyone who has ever been in my position would have gotten one.

I chew on one of my fingernails. I'd never really given much thought to the subject of abortion on a personal level. I listened to the statistics when the representatives from Planned Parenthood came to class, remember a few basic facts, but when it came time to form an opinion I was neutral. I didn't feel the need to choose a side—it had its pros and it had its cons. It had been as simple as that.

But then, I'd never thought I'd have to consider it either.

The other two alternatives smack me in the face. I picture myself in a hospital bed with a newborn in my arms before I can stop myself. I could either hand him off to someone else—someone more capable—or he could stay with me. I'm stuck. My ruling on this matter will be permanent, I can't go back and undo it if I feel like I've made a mistake.

Somehow, that seems to be the scariest thing right now. That I have to be sure of myself. I haven't been sure of anything in a long time.

I don't have an answer. I'm torn between loving and hating the imaginary baby. I can't stand the idea of having everything I counted on be uprooted, but hating the infant seems equally as hard.

The air is suddenly too thick, and I feel like the walls are going to cave in. I need to get out of the house. I turn to the mirror once more, a desperate look in my eyes.

_I need to go; I need to clear my head._

A small part of me wishes I could at least have Caroline by my side but involving her isn't a good idea. Sure, I don't want to be alone. Not that I will... technically... I'm sharing my insides with Damon's demon spawn (which _can't_ be anything like the baby I imagined).

I don't know where I want to go, but anywhere has to be better than here.


	9. Dangerous Liaisons

* * *

**~Chapter Seven**

* * *

_No power so effectually robs the mind of all its powers of acting and reasoning as fear._

_~Edmund Burke~_

* * *

I end up going to Caroline's house.

After packing my duffle bag with random pieces of clothing and standing with my hand on to the doorknob for ten minutes, I came to my senses. Or rather, I decided running away would create even more problems.

So, I turn back to my closet and begin selecting dresses, tops, and pants that would be Caroline-approved. I probably shouldn't go to this thing, I should probably just call Damon, tell him the news, but I'd prefer to pretend that nothing is wrong.

That this isn't happening.

So, the most logical course of action would be to go about my business as I originally planned.

When I ring the doorbell, Sheriff Forbes answers.

I, of course, know her as Liz. Caroline is her spitting image—they have the same shade of nearly-platinum blonde hair and blue eyes, though the older woman's hair is cropped short. She's also more reserved than her daughter. When her husband left her for his boyfriend, she didn't let anyone see her pain.

She remained poised in the face of scandal.

I've always admired her for it. It's how my grandmother dealt with emotional distress. Head-on and without fear.

"Hi, Mrs. Forbes—did Elena beat me here?"

Her face breaks into a smile, an action that highlights the lines around her mouth and eyes. "No—though, I warn you, Caroline's room already looks like a ransacked department store."

I can see by the way she just glows at the mention of her daughter, that she wouldn't have it any other way. A good thing that now makes me feel horrible.

"Do you think the door will still open?"

"If you hurry." She steps aside and allows me to enter.

The Forbes' home décor has changed a lot through the years. When Care became old enough to verbalize her distaste with her mother's preference, she very slowly took over the design of the whole house.

Every lamp, pillow, table, and fabric is trendy. The walls a pale shade of yellow, the couch gray, throw pillows a golden-yellow with a floral design printed in white. The television is playing some home renovation show, the coffee table adorned with a vase of sunflowers.

I always feel like I'm standing in the middle of a showroom when I'm here.

When I make it to Caroline's bedroom, I see that Liz had seriously underplayed the mess. The entirety of Caroline's shoe collection is scattered across the carpet, dresses hang out of the drawers, make-up bag spilled across the top of the aforementioned dresser.

I can barely walk over to her bed without tripping, falling, and being drowned in a pile of jackets, never to be seen again. I almost bury myself in the pile anyway. That _has_ to be the best option.

"Can you believe that I can't find my—" Caroline whirls around, takes one look at me, and hops over several heaps of clothes to give me a bear hug. "Bon, what's wrong? We couldn't find you at lunch… we looked everywhere. _Damon_ said he saw you leave and when I went back to talk to him later, _he_ was gone. I checked my phone several thousand times in gym class, and I texted you—"

"I know, I saw… I just needed some time to sort some things out."

"I didn't want to bug you—that's why I didn't come to your house. You've been so emotionally distant lately… and I know you hate when I ask you the same thing over and over again… I didn't want to pry…" She's talking so quickly that I struggle to understand what she's saying.

 _Tell her._ "I'm sorry… I r-really-y a-am. I've just… b-been…" I take a deep breath. "You see… Damon…"

"What did that asshole do?" Care interrupts, "Because I know you can fight your own battles, but I swear to God I'm going to kill him for making you so upset!"

"Thanks, Care, really, but—"

I stop talking when her bedroom door swings open, revealing Elena, who has a few dresses slung over her arms and a huge grin on her face. "I think I actually found something that you'll like!"

"Elena, I'm so glad you're here, Bonnie is in serious need of girl talk—" the last few words are muffled by my hand.

Elena _can't_ know. I don't want to cause any more distress. I have enough to handle already. I don't want her to _hate me._ I wouldn't be able to live with myself if she feels as though I betrayed her by not being honest.

"Care's just being dramatic," I give my angry friend a pleading stare. _Don't say anything, don't tell her,_ please. "I'm just bogged down with reports and essays…"

Caroline nods, pushing my hand away from her lips. "You know I think Tanner is a homework Nazi."

"Okay…" the brunette says slowly. I know she doesn't believe it, but she doesn't question us. Instead, she holds up a plum-colored dress. "How's this? It's not the purple one you hate."

We study her pick—especially me. I've never spent so much time staring at a dress in my entire life. That dress, which Elena purchased for the spring dance in tenth grade, is my savior, a much-needed Deux ex Machina.

"It's still purple," Caroline says. "But it's cute. I give my seal of approval."

I give the outfit another once-over. "It'll look great on you."

"Thanks, guys! Now, what about shoes… sandals or heels?"

I say sandals at the same time Care says heels and a wave of relief washes over me as I passionately argue over my fashion choice, my woes almost completely pushed away.

* * *

The sprawling lawn and giant Victorian-style house that the Lockwood family resides in never fails to impress me.

A large rectangle-shaped house with arching windows and an expansive porch held up by elegant pillars. The backyard has a pool and hot tub set up that can be seen from the side of the building.

A pool that is filled with the majority of the football team and every one of my fellow cheerleaders—Care and Elena and I being the exceptions. I could hear the music blaring from the iPod dock the second we turned onto the street.

Several throngs of teenagers are milling around by the front door, too intimidated by the noise (or maybe the upperclassmen) to venture inside any further. Elena motions for us to link arms, which we do, and she and I are happy to let Care take the lead.

That puts us in front of the counter where bottles of hard liquor and fruit juices sit. The air in the kitchen reeks of alcohol. The scent is so prominent—even intermingled with pizza bites and mini-cheeseburgers—that I have to suppress the urge to gag.

If my posse notices, they don't show it.

I let them know that I'm going to search for Stefan, my partner in sobriety, while they're busy mixing drinks. They both nod eagerly as they're perusing bottles of prosecco, tequila, and Woodford Reserve bourbon—Damon's favorite.

I weave in and out of small crowds, nearly bumping into a couple so busy making out that they don't even acknowledge my presence. I look for the back of Stef's head amongst the backdrop of strobe lights (how Caroline managed to get that setup, I don't know) and haze of pot smoke wafting over the living room. The overbearing thrum of punk rock makes it very hard to distinguish between different voices.

I'm so focused on my mission that I nearly jump out of my skin when I feel a hand land on my shoulder.

I spin around, coming face-to-face with Damon Salvatore.

We are so close to one another that the tips of our noses touch. Not because we _want_ to make physical contact; it's just that there isn't any room around us to maintain a normal speaking distance.

"I was looking for you," he says loudly, though I can barely hear him—even with him practically shouting over the music. "We need to talk."

My hopes for a drama-free evening are circling the drain. "Um, okay. Talk."

"Not here."

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ I have a sinking suspicion that I know what he wants to discuss. I follow him into the foyer and up the steps. The upper hallway is vacant, save for a locked guest room or two, reinforced with sensible black socks on the doorknobs.

"Yes?"

His blue eyes dart from left to right, confirming that we are, in fact, alone. That our only audience is a photo of Tyler's mom and dad took when he was sworn into office.

"You skipped school today," he says. A statement; not a question.

"Not really," I deny. "I was there this morning."

"You left before anatomy."

"So? What are you, my secretary?"

"No, I'm observant." He glares at me. "Usually, I have much more entertaining things to keep tabs on—who wants to watch you bitch about the obscene graffiti in the girl's bathroom? You act like you haven't seen a penis before. But, seeing as there was nothing better going on, I was hoping you could entertain me."

"Sorry—I was feeling sick."

"See, that's the thing. I don't think you're really _sick_ ," I'm really beginning to resent his overuse of air quotes.

"What are implying?" My question comes out sounding like a dare. I raise an eyebrow, plant my hands on my hips. _Go ahead, say it._ My body language is screaming it, _begging_ him to tell me his theory.

But I don't actually want to know it.

"I saw you. At CVS—buying cheap piss sticks."

"Piss sticks… what?"

"Look, what you want to pee on is none of my business—unless a pink plus sign showed up afterward."

I'm flustered. I don't know how I should respond. It turns out Damon _can_ be discreet if he so chooses. I thought he didn't see me; I'd been so _sure_ I went undetected. I thought I would have total control of the narrative.

I don't know if I overestimated myself or underestimated Damon.

"And, since you haven't let Enzo enter the promised land, I can only assume that this doesn't involve him. This means this is my problem, too. So, Bennett, grow some balls and tell me—are you pregnant?"

"Yes." The confirmation comes out sounding quiet and choked.

"Well, _fuck."_

"That's how we got into this mess," I remind him.

"Good one Bennett, I see I'm rubbing off on you."

" _Damon! That's—ugh, can you at least pretend to be mature?"_

He smiles and he looks so devious that I want to kick him. "I _could,_ but immaturity is just too fun. I like seeing you squirm."

"How are you not freaking out?" I shriek, clenching my hands, trying to ignore the way my voice cracks.

Damon shrugs. "There's no point. We won't accomplish anything that way."

Okay, so he can act like he's older than twelve, _which I knew._ I have a better understanding of Damon than I'm comfortable with.

"I'll take your silence as approval."

"Okay."

"Come on, Bennett. We have some adulting to do."

He leads me back downstairs and outside, walking to the end of the driveway where he parked his car.

"Where should we go?" he asks. "Best friend rules dictate that it's your turn to choose."

"Aw, look at you, being polite."

"Don't get used to it," he waits until I'm buckled in to back out of the Lockwood property. "It doesn't happen often."

"I know."

But it's becoming a more common occurrence. That doesn't stop me from feeling surprised by it, but it's a nice kind of surprise—like a thoughtful birthday present or a gesture of goodwill. I'm actually sad that I can't appreciate it. It's too mixed-up in a very bad, highly unexpected monkey wrench.

As I sit down, I take a second to ponder his question. Where do I want to go?

I've always had the fortune—which feels more like _mis_ fortune right now—of always having an answer, some kind of plan. Some of my designs, others not so much.

But I have one.

I don't know what to do next.

And neither does he. We are searching for the right course of action where there isn't one. Not one where we can come out of this the same as we were.

And I'm not sure I'm ready to change.


	10. Breathing Underwater

* * *

**~Chapter Eight~**

* * *

_And that's the thing about illicit affairs  
And clandestine meetings  
And longing stares  
It's born from just one single glance  
But it dies, and it dies, and it dies  
...a million little times_

_~Taylor Swift, illicit affairs~_

* * *

"Well… are you going to make up your mind?"

Damon's voice breaks through the heavy silence like a wrecking ball.

I glance at him. His eyes are trained on the road, face blank. This isn't how I thought this conversation would go. I pictured anger, accusations, proclamations about how his cruise down the easy street is now fucked beyond repair.

Only he is taking the news in stride.

This reasonable side of Damon is one that I didn't think existed. Sure, he can _act_ level-headed, but that doesn't mean it's genuine. Damon's wild and unpredictable, a loose cannon with the capability of destroying everything around him—specifically in times of panic or uncertainty.

"Take the next exit," I instruct, turning back to the window and resting my chin on my hand.

"Still not specific," he mutters, but he flicks on the turn signal anyway.

I'm a bit surprised when he doesn't demand any further instructions for me. In fact, he doesn't say much of anything else, opting to play music from his phone instead. Nirvana's _In Bloom_ emerges from the speakers, and the loud guitars and senseless lyrics sound odd at the low volume Damon set.

I reach for the controls, cranking it up so I can feel the music thrumming against the soles of my feet, pounding in my stomach.

He throws me a look and opens his mouth to protest, probably to say that it's _his_ car and therefore _he_ gets to decide every aspect of our drive—the speed, the air, the music, but I don't allow him the opportunity.

"I want to stop thinking."

"I knew you were spending too much time with Enzo. Tell me, how many I.Q points have you lost so far?"

"That's… not very nice."

He snorts. "Wow Sherlock, I never would have known that without your help."

"Damon—you don't know how friendship works, do you?"

"I'm offended—I called you my best friend—" he glances at the digital clock on his phone "—twenty minutes ago and now you're telling me I'm mean— _and_ insulting my intelligence. Maybe you're the one who doesn't understand friendship."

"I just want to know why you're suddenly acting like Enzo is public enemy number one."

"If you knew—" he stops short.

"If I knew what?" I press, suddenly very suspicious that I am missing something, something I should probably picked up on myself.

"People aren't all one thing, Bon Bon. They aren't all good or all bad—there's always room for both. Sometimes, you have to be willing to see people for what they are. Nobody's perfect."

"Obviously," I mutter. "Thanks for the info, oh wise one."

"Enzo… he can be a dick, Bennett. And I know you like him, but just remember… the two of us get along for a reason."

"What are you insinuating?"

"Nothing. I just… get a weird feeling about him sometimes, that's all. I just chalk it up to being around you. If I have to hear about your chi one more time, I might puke."

"Aw, Damon… you care about my feelings!"

"No," he asserts. "I care about _Elena's_ feelings, and she cares about you. It's just a shitty side-effect of wanting to be nice to Stefan's girlfriend—I don't think she'll come to her senses and dump his emo ass anytime soon."

"Okay. I believe you." I smirk—just like he does when he wants to patronize me. I turn back to the window, and I can see my smug reflection in the glass.

I don't have to look at him to know that he's rolling his eyes. "I'm ignoring that—I take the next left to get to your parent's beach house, right?"

"How do you know that I want to go there?"

"I just had a feeling."

"Says the guy who doesn't want to talk about chi."

He ignores my remark. "Okay—we're here. And a solid hour away from Mystic Falls, good choice Bennett. Hey, I bet it feels good to make one of those again."

"Shut up," is all I can think to say.

"Only if you explain _why_ you had me drive an hour away just to talk." He tries to cover his bewilderment by adding, "did you just want to re-visit the scene of the crime. If so, you'll just have to settle for your place. I don't have the keys—my dad says Stefan's more responsible and he should have them."

"No—I don't want to be inside of a place of yours."

"That's what she said."

"You're juvenile. I just thought I could… I don't know. I thought… that we could… discuss everything better here."

The confused expression hasn't left Damon's face. "Okay, but how are we going to do that?"

"By playing Monopoly!" I say suddenly, sounding far more cheerful than I actually feel.

"You want to handle this by playing a board game?" he says slowly. "You've fucking cracked, haven't you?" A hint of anger mars his tone.

"No. I want to calm down before I make any heavy decisions."

"But… you're not calm when you lose."

"I don't plan on losing."

I shut the door and wait for Damon to lock the car, stepping out into the chilly night. The cold air smacks me in the face and I shiver involuntarily. I look down at my attire: a short, red dress and thin cardigan. I am not dressed for the beach in late September. I rub my arms and I feel the goosebumps on my skin. God, how did I go from being prompt, organized, and responsible to completely and utterly unprepared?

I cock my head to the side and motion for Damon to follow me up the walkway. I jog up the porch steps and turn the outside light on. I reach for the spare key that sits underneath a bunch of potted begonias. Their petals are brown around the edges, wilting slowly, and I feel a surge of pity for them. I had warned Mom that she should choose a flower that will bloom with the weather, a plant that leaves seeds behind so they will be brand-new upon our return, but she just had to use the same ones that were in her wedding bouquet. Typical Abby—forcing her desires onto a subject that won't easily comply. _Typical Rudy, too,_ I think with a roll of my eyes.

I shake my head, shove the key into the doorknob, and push the door open with more force than necessary. Once inside, I turn on the light and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror hanging on the adjacent wall. My black hair is a mess despite Caroline's attempt to make it look presentable before she allowed me to leave her room. And yet, I still look like an extra on the set of _The Walking Dead._

_So much for that "pregnancy glow."_

"Okay… where are the games?" he asks, closing the door behind him.

"First door on the left."

As my blue-eyed partner-in-crime rifles through the games closet, I head to the kitchen and sit at the table. Our beach house is relatively small. Quaint, with blue walls and white wicker furniture. I put my head on the tabletop and sigh. My parents waited to have me until they were both established in their careers. They had a bunch of resources at their disposal. Heck, I'm pretty sure they purchased this place before the end of my first year. They did not have to give anything up—they were smart.

_Unlike me._

This leaves me feeling like I'm drowning, trying desperately to hold onto the oxygen decaying in my lungs because I can't seem to reach the surface.

Damon sets up the board game as I wallow, appointing himself as the banker despite my protests. We are able to play a few rounds, all of which he won by cheating. I knock his game piece off the board, hitting it so hard it falls onto the linoleum with a _plink!_

"Who's the sore loser, now?" he taunts, waving a stack of fake five-hundred-dollar bills in my direction.

I wrap my arms around my torso and pout. "Still you—you're a cheater."

"No, I'm a real estate tycoon."

"Cheater, cheater pumpkin eater!" I chant, sticking my tongue out. I sound so immature that if I had said those words to anyone else, I would have wanted to run away in embarrassment. Possibly change my name and re-locate to Hawaii.

But it's only Damon and there is _no way_ that he'll surpass me in the maturity department.

"You lost fair and square!"

I shift away from Damon. "Fine, since you're such a winner, _you_ can tell _me_ what you think we should do."

Part of my reason for looking at the painting of sea creatures behind me is so I don't have to watch his face when he says _abort it._

"As the new champion I think I'll let you go before me—I'm feeling gracious."

 _That's it; I've had it._ "I'm going to my room—come find me when you want to start being serious."

I trudge into the hallway, stomp up the stairs, slam my bedroom door shut.

I throw myself onto my bed, hoping to cling to the familiarity, the whims of the twelve-year-old who finally got to have a say in what both of her rooms looked like.

Everything is so very _Bonnie_ —a sentiment that hasn't changed in the five years since I designed it. My bed is made up like the one you might see in a hotel room. Crisp and white with a matching white canopy hanging over the headboard. All of my books are lined up neatly on a little shelf, organized by both size and color. A display of pink seashells sits on my nightstand, next to a small pink lamp.

Somehow, I have managed to be _me,_ the same person I have been since puberty, for so long that it seems almost impossible for me to be in this situation.

I'm dwelling on my personality crisis when there is a light tap on the door.

Ten minutes. That's how long it took him to get his shit together and find me.

I let him in. "What is it?"

Damon breezes by me and plops down on my bed. He looks around the room and has to suppress a smile.

"I bet you spent the last few hours here deciding what to do with those books." He nods toward the shelf.

"No," I respond pointedly. "I was hungover. The rest of my summer was spent in bed feeling sorry for myself because you chose Rebekah over me." I turn away, burying my face in my hands.

"You were jealous of Rebekah?"

"No." I face him again. My eyes are so watery they begin to sting. "… I was…. I just thought we were… at least going to be cordial… isn't it the polite thing… to do… when you've taken someone's virginity… I mean… shouldn't you have… given me a heads up or something."

"About Rebekah?" he asks, half amused, half bewildered. "You know she came to me, right? I never asked her to show up on my doorstep."

I don't know what to think about that, how I should respond to his statement

"Okay let's get down to business." I shake my head abruptly, changing gears so quickly it looks like it makes Damon's head spin.

"Fine by me."

I start talking very fast as if a bomb will go off if I don't finish speaking in time. "I'm at least two weeks late and every one of those damn sticks said you knocked me up. I think we should make an appointment with an OBGYN and go from there…. That would be the responsible thing to do."

"You want to keep it?" Damon asks incredulously.

"Yes… no…. I have no clue. All I know is that being tied to you for eighteen years completely repulses me."

He glares at her. "You're no peach either."

He glances up at me again. I am suddenly very aware of the fact that I don't even _look like_ I could pass for the girl-next-door, the ones who are actually described as peaches for their sunny dispositions. The girls like my friends, who are always on their game, always the sweetest girls out of the bunch—energetic, optimistic, put-together. My hair is a mess of curls, somehow making me look like I'm trying too hard with the party attire and I look like I haven't slept in a month. My dark hair, mocha-colored skin, and bright green eyes are usually so different from what Damon sees now. All the fight in my expression has disappeared.

Now it's _his_ turn to go silent, but—because he's Damon—that doesn't last long

"You need to sleep." He states, clearly uncomfortable.

I scoff. "As if I can sleep when I'm up at two in the morning puking."

"… I see that."

"Shut up," I mumble.

"I'll stay downstairs while you sleep in here. Then we will head home in the morning."

"I was planning on going home tonight."

"You won't be able to rest there—you'll be so tired you'll fall down the steps and break your neck."

"Since when do you care what happens to me?"

"Elena would be upset if you died."

"Whatever."

He smirks at my half-hearted reply. "Just text your parents and tell them you're staying at Elena's."

"I'm only doing it because I am exhausted; _not_ because you told me to," I say childishly. I take my cell phone off the nightstand and punch the keyboard angrily.

"Yeah, right."

Damon gets up and heads for the door.

"I usually am," I retort.

"Sometimes." He corrects. "You're right some of the time—even a broken clock is right twice a day."

"I just… hope we can do the right thing now."

"We will," he says firmly like it's a fact.

I wish I could believe him.

* * *

I don't remember much of the drive home. I do remember the pit stop we made at the gas station, however… and it's been on my mind since I got home. I mulled it over while I was in the shower, rinsing away the last of the previous night's confusion. I contemplated it as I sat on the bathroom floor in nothing but a towel. And now… it's still bothering me as I lie on my bed in an over-sized t-shirt that just so happens to be Damon Salvatore's.

" _Damon, you need to pull over."_

" _Are you kidding me? We've only been on the road for fifteen minutes."_

_I shot him the dirtiest look I could manage before I pressed my forehead against the window. "Just do it."_

_His eyes felt like lasers, I could tell he was appraising me, trying to figure out if I was being serious or difficult._

" _Fine, but if you puke on my upholstery, you're paying to have it cleaned. I still have nightmares about your drunken assault on my bathroom. You were like that kid from_ The Exorcist."

_I had opened my mouth to respond, but clamped it shut the second I realized that I'd be out a huge chunk of my savings if I continued to argue with him._

_So, I decided to close my eyes until the car stopped moving._

_Damon pulled into the smallest gas station I've ever seen. It only had three pumps and two bore hand-written out of order signs. There were only a few spaces to park in front of the convenience store, of which Damon took the last available spot. As soon as I saw the sign directing me to the bathrooms, I bolted over to it._

_I barely made it inside the door before I began to wretch. My knees had hit the dirty floor and I am still disgusted by the mystery puddle I knelt in. Surprisingly, I found myself hoping it was pee—the other alternatives were far grosser. The strong scent of urine emanating from the toilet caused me to dry heave a few more times._

_When I was satisfied nothing else was going to come up, I stood, used my foot to push the handle to flush, and dumped three-quarters of the soap left in the wall dispenser onto my hands. I ran them under the faucet until it felt like I scrubbed a layer of flesh away._

_As I walked into the lot, I saw Damon leaning against the hood of his car. He looked amused like my constant discomfort was the funniest thing he ever witnessed._

" _Take a picture; it'll last longer," I muttered, shouldering past him._

" _If you insist," His comment was followed by the clicking sound of an iPhone camera capturing a photo._

" _You—" I spun around, jabbing a finger in his face._

_He backed away from me like I had the plague. "Uh, you've got a little…" he nodded at my chest._

_I looked down to see a huge vomit stain on my dress._

" _Fuck!"_

" _Hold on," Damon moved toward the back of his car, emerging with a wrinkled t-shirt a minute later. "Here," he tossed it my way._

_I caught the replacement, pinching it between two fingers, wrinkling my nose. "I don't want to know about the things this poor shirt has been through."_

" _It's never been worn," Damon replied bluntly. "Though it was present when I hooked up with Tessa Newman two years ago."_

_I studied the logo carefully. "You must really hate Pink Floyd, then."_

" _I went to see a cover band at the Grille, it was the only shirt left—it's XXL. It'll be a little big on you, but I think you'll grow into it."_

" _Gee, thanks for the reassurance."_

" _No problem."_

_I stared at him, debating on my options: smell like a walking case of food poisoning or accept Damon's solution. I would have gladly dealt with the former if I didn't think that the stench would make me spew chunks again, but the odds weren't in my favor._

_So, I climbed into the back seat of the Camaro and changed while Damon held up his leather jacket to shield me from the other patrons. When I finished, I regretfully threw my dress into the nearest trash bin, as some memories aren't worth the effort of washing away._

_I stomped over to the passenger's side. "Thanks—I guess."_

" _No problem, Bonzo. You are buying your own mouthwash, though."_

 _That's_ the Damon I had grown to like. The one that acted like a sympathetic human being. Unfortunately, that's half of the reason this choice is so hard. Damon (who used the f-word to describe our relationship; actually, best was also in there. I'm his _best f-word)_ is on this sinking ship with me and I really don't want to jump without him.

Because there are things about me he _understands,_ having been faced with similar situations himself. And, well, I must admit that not feeling alone is nice. Especially because I'd been so sure things were going to turn out differently.

Differently would make everything simpler, cleaner, but I've never been one to go for simple or easy. I have parents that won't stand for that, even if it is what I'd personally like to do.

That's why Damon has usurped Elena in the best friend category in a matter of months. Hell, honestly, it had only been weeks. It _should_ be a no-brainer: I've been Elena's best friend for years (fourteen, to be exact) but with Damon… we're each other's friend. Had I been presented with this conundrum last May; I would have said those two sentences meant the same thing.

That's not the truth, though.

The truth is different—and not in an easy way.


	11. Losing My Religion

* * *

**~Chapter Nine~**

* * *

_That's me in the corner  
That's me in the spotlight  
Losing my religion  
Trying to keep up with you  
And I don't know if I can do it  
Oh no, I've said too much  
I haven't said enough_

_~R.E.M., Losing My Religion~_

* * *

News travels fast around here.

An issue I had conveniently forgotten to consider when I left Tyler's party in Damon's car.

Well, I guess I should be more specific about that sweeping generalization. News travels fast amongst our group of friends when Elena has a secret to share. As far as I know, the rest of the town is blissfully unaware of the fact that Damon knocked me up.

That doesn't save me from Caroline, though. She wants me to tell her _everything._ And I'm torn—confiding in her would be such a relief, but I can't risk anyone else finding out. Not yet, not when Damon and I don't know what to do or what we want.

And the third-degree she's trying to push on me isn't making it any better. The details she's asking for are extremely personal… and while I've been dying for her opinion, I find myself questioning why I was going to spill the beans in the first place.

I'm already overwhelmed; I won't let Elena or Care make it worse.

I meet my friend's demanding stare with a level gaze. "Only if you tell me what Elena told you."

" _Duh._ I wouldn't keep that from you—" semi-angry glare. "I just want you to be okay. I love you."

My face softens. "Okay. Start from when I left Lockwood's house—and… I love you, too."

She sits on the edge of my bed, toying with a loose thread on her dress… "It started when she ran up to Stefan and Tyler and me…"

_~~X~~_

_Caroline didn't know what to think when she saw Elena sprinting across the living room, pushing through a group of timid freshmen._

" _Care—there you are! We need to talk._ Now."

" _Can't it wait?" The blonde teen asked through clenched teeth, motioning to Tyler, who was in the middle of telling Stefan how wonderful it was having her help planning the party._

_The sense of urgency on Elena's face was kind of alarming. So frantic that Care knew she wouldn't be much of a comfort to her. Bonnie was the level-headed one. Care was good when it came to threatening complete social destruction upon their enemies. Bonnie was the real mastermind. She solved the problems, talked them off the ledge of crazy Caroline nearly dragged them over, and if firepower was needed… well, Bonnie knew just how to use it._

_Caroline was just the motivator, the instigator._

" _I think I saw Bonnie go outside. We'll find her. What's wrong?" she took her friend's arm and pulled her in the direction of the entrance._

" _See—that's the thing,_ Bonnie _is the one in trouble."_

_Care couldn't stifle her snort of disbelief. "Elena… how much have you had to drink?"_

" _Not enough," she retorted, glancing down at the beer bottle in her hand._

_She stopped dragging Elena behind her when they reached the front porch. Caroline inhaled a deep breath of almost-fall air and looked at Elena._

" _What's wrong with Bonnie? Where is she?"_

" _With Damon," replied Elena, bitterness thick in her voice. "They left… like, ten minutes ago."_

" _Oh." That's all Caroline said. She remembered the conversation a frazzled Bonnie had been trying to have with her before the third part of their trio showed up._

" _She's… they…"_

" _Lena, spit it out. What happened?"_

" _They_ had sex!"

_Care nearly dropped her red solo cup on the ground. "No way!"_

_Elena nodded vigorously. "And she pregnant!"_

" _Wait… Bonnie would never cheat on Enzo… something's not adding up."_

" _She sure made it sound that way."_

" _Elena!"_

_Elena looked embarrassed. "I… know she wouldn't do that… it happened before I think. Before she started dating Enzo."_

" _Holy fuck."_

" _I know—this can't be real."_

_Caroline tilted her head upward as if she were looking toward the heavens for some kind of advice. Or better yet, something—any kind of sign—that signaled that Elena's claim was some kind of cruel joke._

_She got nothing—not even a small breeze. She could only see the stars, which had been shining brightly ever since the sun went down._

_She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Maybe… maybe you heard them wrong."_

" _No, I didn't." Elena insisted. "Damon said—and I quote 'are you pregnant?' I didn't hear what Bon said, but when Damon gets that look on his face… it's not good."_

" _What look?"_

" _I don't know how to explain it… it's- it's like he's_ scared… _it's how he reacts when he doesn't know what to do. And that seldom happens."_

_Care didn't think that Elena's biased character study of her future brother-in-law was the proof she needed, but the teen looked thoroughly convinced and she wasn't really in the mood to argue. The buzz from her tropical-flavored drink was wearing off, which meant that she either needed to get more or attempt to make sense of all this._

_And now wasn't the time—even if they tried to get ahold of Bonnie, she wouldn't answer their texts or phone calls. Bonnie… well, Care didn't exactly know what her friend would do in such a serious situation._

They _were the ones who screwed up and_ Bonnie _was the one to fix everything. She couldn't think of a time where things played out differently. And, quite frankly, it scared the crap out of her. If Bonnie Bennett needed help—of any kind—they were all screwed._

_She was ninety percent sure that Bonnie fucking up was a sign of the Apocalypse._

" _Well, we can text her… but I think we should give her space. She needs us, but she doesn't need us when we're drunk."_

" _How_ could _she?" Elena burst out._

" _How could she what?" Care furrowed her eyebrows, confused._

" _Have sex with Damon! That's… that's… he's Stefan's brother. She_ hates _him! She never wanted to give him a chance, but he takes his shirt off, and everything changes? I just—I think she should have been honest."_

 _Caroline became even more puzzled, though that could be the vodka talking. "I don't think we should worry about it now. I mean, it's not_ technically _against girl code and I need time to process this."_

" _You're right," she took a huge swig from the bottle. "I'm just going to process it."_

_The blonde watched her friend re-enter the house, vanishing in a crowd of tipsy partygoers. She didn't think that Elena's method of dealing with the supposed news was going to end well._

_And it didn't._

~~X~~

When her tale comes to a stop, I lean back on my pillows and take a deep breath. I know Elena has a crush on Damon. As Caroline usually puts it: who wouldn't? I'm not blind; Salvatore is hot. And maybe I _did_ overstep my boundaries by sleeping with him, but I certainly didn't _intend_ on all of this.

I didn't want to ruin my romantic relationship with Enzo (which, if he hasn't heard about this shitshow yet, then I'm sure Elena will give him the scoop) and the _last_ thing I want to do is hurt one of my best friends.

Or destroy my family.

I want to go to Yale or Harvard, or Brown or Princeton and I want to make my mom and dad proud—even if that means doing the exact opposite of what my personal goals are.

It doesn't exactly _feel_ like that is what I want, but then again, all I _really_ want is to make everything disappear. Following my parent's path seems like a solid justification for making that happen, though.

Maybe Damon has a point. Maybe the end _does_ justify the means.

"Bon—are you with me?"

"Yeah," I mutter. "I'm here. Kind of."

"Well, like I was saying. I get dibs on planning the baby shower."

I smile wryly. "Thanks, Care, but I really don't know _what_ I am going to do. I'm still stuck on the fight I had with Elena." _If arguing via text messages is even considered a fight, that is._

"What did she say?" the caution in her tone makes me think she doesn't truly want to know.

"Here," I toss her my cell phone, which is displaying the thread of messages Elena and I sent to each other.

Care grips the device tightly.

_Elena: hi_

_Bonnie: good morning to you, too._

_Elena: is it true?_

_Bonnie: what?_

_Elena: did you sleep w/ Damon? Are you pregnant?_

_Bonnie: What are you talking about?_

_Elena: I heard you two talking. I promise, I won't be upset—I just want you to tell me the truth. I can take you to the clinic whenever you want. I'll even make the appointment for you. I love you… I just wasn't expecting THIS… it's a lot… but we'll take care of it._

_Bonnie: I don't have anything to tell. You already know. And I never said anything about having an abortion. I don't know what I want yet._

_Elena: You're on track to be valedictorian! You want to go to college. How do you think you're going to do that w/ a kid?_

_Bonnie: I don't know! I JUST found out about the baby, a baby that I'm having someone I don't have a good history with; I'm still thinking about what to do. And you've got Care coming over to get information. How am I supposed to do anything if you two want to make me feel bad? Which, I already do, by the way. I don't need your help w/ that._

_Elena: well, then you should have come to me. I would've helped you, but you lied instead, and I'm hurt that you don't see that it's all I'm trying to do!_

I know Elena means well, that she thinks she's helping, but it's only complicated an already confusing situation. I'm not really surprised. Elena reacts before anything else. Her emotions drive her every decision and right now, she is blind-sided and hurt. And I can sense that in her responses, can picture her face as she types it all out: a steely expression—the one she uses when she refuses to cry, accompanied by a small frown. Her back pressed against the wall as she lounges in her window seat.

But… I've far surpassed the point in which Elena's feelings are my primary concern. This _can't_ be about Elena—and believe me, I'd much rather support her than deal with the consequences of my actions.

"Care, I don't want you guys to hate me." I don't know why this is the problem I choose to handle first, but that's mostly because I don't want to admit to myself that I'm acting like a coward.

Grams is probably rolling in her grave.

"Bonnie—I don't hate you. I'm not even _mad_ at you. I just want to be there for you, but I can't do that if you don't tell me what you need. And… well, I'm a little hungover, so that's why I'm so grumpy. You're just yelling too much."

I laugh. I can't help it. She _does_ look hungover.

Her hair is sticking out in every direction, her bright complexion is tinged with a green cast, and she's still wearing the dress from the previous day (paired with yellow flip-flops). The self-proclaimed fashion guru would never be seen in public with clothes that clash in both color and pattern.

"Sorry," I whisper.

"I forgive you," she answers, rubbing her temples.

I pass her the glass of water I've been drinking. "Here. You need this more than I do."

She takes it gratefully, nearly downing the entire cup in one gulp. "Thanks."

"You're welcome… and… I'm glad you came over. I just wish Elena…"

"I know," Caroline says when I trail off. "She'll come around. She's confused, that's all."

"I don't know. She's really upset."

I don't add that there's only one way to remedy that. It's heavily implied.

Caroline hugs me. "Whatever you do—I'm here for it."

* * *

I find out—through a convoluted chain of phone calls—that my assumption is correct.

Elena is _pissed_ and will remain that way until Damon and I "do the right thing." That's how Caroline explains it to me later on after she's gone home for dinner. I shouldn't have pushed the issue, she told me that I don't want to know. _Really._ But I _did_ —at the moment.

And now I wish I could forget all about it.

Apparently (because I'm a glutton for punishment and asked for more information) Elena went directly to Damon after I never texted her back and gave him a speech about how disappointed she is in him, how she thought he was trying to be better, that screwing her best friend behind everyone's backs is not what she meant when she told him to enjoy his vacation and forget about Rose.

Care couldn't tell me anything else. When Elena relayed the story to her, she skipped over Damon's response completely and didn't offer any explanation when she was pressed.

Which is for the best.

Hysterical Elena is not a reliable narrator.

I could really use some words of wisdom right now. A hug from Grams, a reassurance that I will make it through this trial and emerge stronger than ever.

I look at the oven timer. Five 'o clock on the dot gives me a solid hour and a half before my parents are due to return. If I time everything just right, I'll be able to reach my destination, hopefully, achieve some kind of catharsis, and be back before anyone knows I left.

Mom doesn't like to talk about Grams much.

They didn't have the same viewpoint when it came to their approaches to life, and I think it makes her sad. Not that they had a _bad_ relationship or anything, but they butted heads often enough that Mom was exasperated with her during her final days.

And Grams's death had been unexpected.

Words were left unsaid, words that hang heavy in the air whenever I've tried to reminisce. The tension had become so palpable that one day when my mother used a saying of Shelia's, the room fell silent.

Dad and I had been afraid to move.

Mom excused herself and spent the rest of the morning in a solemn stupor.

Dad had to save the pancakes she had abandoned.

I stayed quiet.

It never happened again.

I hated that memory so much that I hesitate when I find the house keys to the dwelling on Broken Arrow court. What if someone notices that I took them? It's a ridiculous worry. There are so many other things in this drawer that my mom would literally have to dig through boxes of staples, packs of sticky notes, and paper clips to notice that they were missing. She'd also have to abandon her project at the museum, leaving the rest of the prep work to one of her associates, something she'd only do in an emergency.

My fingers close around the beaded lanyard and I sprint out of the basement office, rushing up the stairs and through the front door.

The walk over to Sheila Bennett's old house is calming.

The light outside is dimming, though the sun is still peeking out from behind the treetops, casting wispy shadows on the sidewalk. It's cooler than usual, but I can't enjoy it because I've been keyed-up all day.

Jittery without the comfort of caffeine.

My grandmother's house is a cute, little cottage. A sloping roof with a tiny chimney jutting upward ever so slightly. Warm wooded accents and an herb garden that is now empty.

I make my way up the cobblestone pathway, hands in the pockets of my jeans.

The inside is the same—except for the lack of furniture, which had either been put into storage or brought over to my house. To me, it even _smells_ like fresh-baked cookies and bergamot. A trick of the mind, I know, but I still tell myself that it's real.

I head into what was once the family room.

Once the hall light is turned on, I can make a little sense of the room's layout. The cream carpeting is a bit matted, and when I go over by the mantel, I run face-first into a cobweb. If I could see better, I'm sure I could see the outlines of the many pictures that used to be displayed on the burnt-orange walls.

But it's too dim to get a good look at anything.

And it's better that way—if I studied the room in greater detail, it would make her absence too real. I can handle knowing she's gone, but this is the first time I've been in her house since her passing.

It hits me hard. Then again, every little thing has been emotional napalm to me lately. You'd think I would be a little relieved that I know the why behind it all… that I could take control of the narrative now, but it still feels as if I'm trapped inside a car careening off the road.

I sit down on the floor, crossing my legs and leaning back on my arms.

"Grams… I need you. I messed up. Big time… I- I don't know what to do. Mom and Dad will kill me. If I were them, _I_ would kill myself. They'll be so disappointed… I… I d- don't want that. I _know_ you said I should just be open with them… but I thought I could deal with their plans… I d- d – did. But… I can't now."

I pause, taking in the eerie silence, wishing desperately that I would get a response.

But I don't and I can't help but wonder if that's because I know she'd be disappointed in me, too.


	12. The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men

* * *

**~Chapter Ten~**

* * *

_Expectations were like porcelain. The harder you held them, the more likely they were to crack._

_~Brandon Sanderson~_

_~~X~~_

_Make up your mind  
Decide to walk with me  
Around the lake tonight  
Around the lake tonight  
_

_~Toadies, Possum Kingdom~_

* * *

I am slightly surprised to find my parent's cars parked in the driveway. I glance at the clock on my phone. It's only six. Mom and Dad don't usually return home from work until seven-thirty, nine on Fridays. Lately at least. I think back to simpler times, times when at least one parent was home with me. As I got older, they coordinated their schedules to match. I actually admire their strong work ethics and the ability to still have a solid relationship. The way they raised me inspired me to live a successful life. My quiet independence allows me the freedom to do pretty much whatever I want… to a certain extent. I haven't given them any reason to distrust me—as far as _they_ are aware—and they might not even acknowledge my presence when I enter the house.

I look up at the darkening sky. The sun has just started to go down and the temperature has definitely dropped a bit. Despite the coolness, my palms and forehead are clammy and slick with sweat. I had been hoping that I could just lock myself in my room while they were still out. Even the _thought_ of looking in their direction is driving me crazy.

_Alright. Your mission is to make it to your room before your parental units spot you._

I make it halfway upstairs before I hear my father call my name.

"Hey, sweetie, can you come here for a minute?"

I freeze. "Coming!"

I go down the steps backward, a feeble and useless delaying tactic. I throw a look over my shoulder and see Dad standing at the bottom of the staircase, a small rectangular paper in his hands.

He extends his arm toward me. I can now see that it's not a note or an envelope—it's a check with my name on it.

My hand trembles as I reach out to accept it. "What's this for?"

"Your application fees… for Harvard, Yale, and Brown." Dad gives me a quizzical look. "I wrote a note telling you I'd cover the cost of it three days ago. I left it by the landline."

I hadn't spent much time in the family room in the past week. So much has gone on that reading Mom and Dad's daily memos seemed trivial. It makes me sad to think I actually appreciated the last one I read.

"Oh, right," I dramatically thump myself on the forehead. "It must have slipped my mind. I spent the whole weekend helping…" I try to recall who I told them I was with. "Elena with her math homework."

That expression hasn't left Dad's face. "Don't worry about it… just make sure you have your essays taken care of."

"I do." This is true. I've had those essays written and saved on my laptop since junior year. "I just have to ask a few teachers for letters of recommendation."

He beams. "That's my girl! I am so proud of you!"

_Well fuck._

I tell him good night and run into my room. Why is my life such a shit storm? I press my ear to the door and listen intently to the muffled conversation my parents are having.

 _"I know Bonnie Bear is home, but she'll probably be in her room the rest of the night."_ The underlying tone in my mother's voice grosses me out.

 _"Well, I'll meet you upstairs then!"_ Dad says. Even though the door is muddling their words a bit, I can still pick up on the way he returns her excitement.

I guess I should just be happy that they will be too busy to come to check on me. I wait for the normal feeling of mild resentment to come, but I just feel relief. There are sometimes I wish my family would behave like a typical family unit. You know, the whole eat a home-cooked meal, talk about our respective days' thing. I don't know if those desires will ever come back to me.

I've already decided that I cannot tell my parents about this. Not after my dad's proclamation of pride. That basically rules out going to the traditional gynecologist's office. I don't need anything suspicious showing up on the insurance bill. That pretty much narrows my options down completely. Planned Parenthood it is.

I type the web address into my computer. The website is fairly easy to navigate. My whole arm is shaking as I move to click on the tab labeled _Abortion Care._ I force myself to read the information they have provided.

Seems simple enough. The whole thing should be a fairly smooth process. Well, physically at least. Emotionally is a totally different story.

The nearest clinic is about an hour away. I scribble the address and phone number down. I'm going to have to leave school early to get there at a reasonable time. I plan on calling as soon as I arrive at school tomorrow. I'll make an appointment and then I'll let Damon know right before anatomy class. Hopefully, he will be able to cover for me at the end of the day. I'll ask him if he will let the cheerleading coach know I will be missing yet another practice.

I tell myself that this is my only option. If I don't want this news to spread any further than I need to eliminate any evidence it existed in the first place. Damon probably thinks that this is the best course of action already—he will need no convincing.

I feel like a robot as I shut the computer down. I take my jeans off and throw them in the corner of my room, I go to pull the t-shirt off, but hesitate. I feel the overwhelming need to keep it on. I have no clue as to why.

_It's a cool shirt. That's all._

I feel a stab of sorrow when I think of Enzo, who had left me three voicemail messages since that my hasty exit last night. I should be wearing an article of _my boyfriend's_ clothing. That's what I want. I don't want to be so secretive. I'm not being fair or rational. I don't want Damon to be this big a part of my life. Except I know I'm not telling myself the truth. About anything. Not that the truth is so cut-and-dry. I climb into bed and squeeze my eyes shut. I'll have a clearer head in the morning. It will all be over with the next time I lie in my bed. This nightmare will finally end.

I tell myself the tears streaming down my face are because of happiness, not regret. I think it over and over again to no avail. _Maybe I'll believe it tomorrow…_ I feel my face relax and I take a deep breath. I hadn't realized how exhausted I was. I can't fight the fatigue anymore. I'm just glad I can finally rest.

* * *

The clock on my dashboard reads 6:50.

Classes begin in ten minutes.

" _Come on, come on, come on!"_ I mutter under my breath. The hold music on the other end of the phone is beginning to grate on my nerves.

"Bonnie?"

"Yes?"

"You are all set for your appointment this afternoon!" The receptionist sounds entirely too cheerful for my liking.

"Thank you."

"We will see you at two o'clock!"

I hang up the phone.

I still don't feel any better about my choice. It feels as if it's not really my choice at all. I know it's the logical thing to do. Elena, despite her jerkiness about it, made several good points. I _can't_ be valedictorian if I'm nine months pregnant at graduation. Going to an Ivy League college would probably be out of the question. Can't pay for tuition if I'm buying diapers every other day.

And then I see something very…odd. Damon is standing in the courtyard across from where I parked my car—talking rather animatedly _at_ Tyler Lockwood. I can't see Damon's face, but I have a full view of Tyler's. He looks… _scared?_ That doesn't make any sense. Damon and Tyler are usually cool with each other. Really, I can't think of a time they weren't. Enzo, Damon, and Tyler are three peas in a pod.

I check the clock one more time. 6:55. At least I'll be right on time for class. I sling my bag over my shoulder and pull at the hem of my sweater. I thought if I went back to my normal routine and attire things would start to go back to the way they were. Wrong. I know I can't possibly be showing so soon, but I feel like my classmates will be able to _tell._

I make it to the classroom door just as the bell rings. Damon is standing right in front of it, though. Arms folded across his chest. His body is blocking the entryway and the curtain hanging over the window is pulled down.

"How'd you get here so fast?" I ask, eyes narrowed.

Damon actually looks a little startled. "Huh?"

"I saw you talking to Tyler Lockwood a few minutes ago."

"And _I'm_ the stalker?" he asks mockingly.

I roll my eyes.

"I was just… striking a deal with him. He doesn't tell anyone about our _situation,_ and I let him keep his organs inside his body."

I instinctively cover my stomach with my bookbag. "How does _he_ know about it?"

"Wow, Bon Bon. I thought you were way smarter than that. _How does anyone know?"_

"Elena?"

" _Ding, ding, ding_! We have a winner, folks!"

I shake my head in denial. "She doesn't really talk to him… only when he's with Caroline."

The realization hits me like a ton of bricks. And then there's the betrayal. I had been hurt by her words yesterday… but this is awful. I really can't trust my best friend to keep her mouth shut.

"Does Enzo know?"

"No. If he did, he wouldn't have talked to me about why you were so upset yesterday."

"He was worried about me?"

"Yeah," he rolls his eyes. "But that should be the _least_ of our problems right now." I'm taken aback by how easily the word "our" rolled off his tongue.

"Don't worry. It won't be a problem after tonight."

Damon's facial expression is unreadable. "You're getting an abortion?"

"Yup. At 2:00."

"You didn't tell me before you made an appointment?"

I shrug. "I assumed we were on the same page about it."

He nods. "I see."

"So, if you could—"

"Drive you there? No problem, Bennett. I'd be honored." His eyelashes flutter and the corners of his mouth rise with fake humility.

"…Tell the cheerleading coach I won't be at practice tonight."

"Can't. I have a prior engagement at two o'clock." He shrugs his shoulders. "I'm driving my friend to a doctor's appointment. Ask literally anyone else." He says the last part with a smirk.

"I drove my car here this morning. You _are not_ driving my car. It was my cousin Emily's and I paid her 4,000 for it. It took me all summer sophomore year to earn the money for it! I can't just get another one if you fuck it up."

He rolls his eyes so hard they almost get stuck in the back of his head. "You are such a control freak."

"Fine." I relent, holding my hands up in surrender. "Come if you want. Just don't make me late."

"I wouldn't dream of it, Bon Bon." He pats me on the top of my head.

"Stop calling me that!" I snap. "And meet me in the parking lot at 12:55."

"I'll be there."

"Lovely. Now, if you will kindly get out of my way, that'd be great. I have notes to take and a dismissal request to forge."

"After you," he opens the door and gestures for me to go ahead of him.

I don't reply.

* * *

Damon is outside before I am.

As it turns out, _I'm_ the one who is running behind. It was harder to copy my mom's handwriting than I thought. The personalized stationery I stole from her desk this morning had been a nice touch. The biggest obstacle had been lying to the secretary.

_~~X~~_

_"Okay, Ms. Bennett. You are free to go to 12:50." She punctuates her sentence with a flourish of her pen._

_"That's all?" I take the dismissal pass from her wrinkly hand._

_"Well, I have to make a note of it in the computer system. Why are you leaving again?"_

_"Doctor's appointment."_

_"Just bring a note with you tomorrow. It won't remain on your record then."_

_"Perfect!" I say, running for the door._

_~~X~~_

"You're late!" Damon trills, checking an imaginary wristwatch.

I scoff. "By one minute—if that!"

"Still late!" Damon sticks his tongue out and walks over to the passenger's side

_~~X~~_

Damon spends the majority of our travels critiquing my driving skills and messing with the radio.

"You could have gone, you know."

"I didn't have enough space."

"The speed limit is fifty-five! Look, I just saw a grandma pass you!"

"…That wasn't an old lady."

"Was too!"

"Was not!"

"Don't you listen to any _good_ music?"

"Stay out of my CD case!"

"Who uses CDs anymore?"

"Me!"

" _Soothing Sounds: A Collection of Classical Songs."_

 _"_ What's wrong with classical music?"

"It puts me to sleep!"

"Good! Then you might shut up!"

"Nope. I talk in my sleep."

"It figures."

"Well so do you— _and_ you snore."

"I do not!"

"Whatever you say."

"I thought I told you to stop touching my stuff!"

"Rihanna, Whitney Houston, Sia, The Beatles? Pick a genre, Bennett.

"You better not get smudges all over the disk—it's one of my favorites. I love _Blackbird."_

 _"_ Me too."

"There's nothing wrong with my other albums."

"I'm putting The Beatles CD in—because it's not on a list of Today's Hits."

"It is if you put on a classic rock station."

" _Blackbird singing in the dead of night…_ _Take these broken wings and learn to fly…"_

 _"_ You know, if you drove faster you could have made that light."

"Shut up, Damon!"

* * *

The waiting room inside the Planned Parenthood clinic is cold and dark. Not in an ominous way, but in a dull way. The walls are a drab gray, the chairs are covered in a boring black and white pattern. The bright yellow scrubs the check-in nurse is wearing don't do anything for the atmosphere. Damon is leafing through the various women's magazines and pamphlets he found on the coffee table. I'm doing my best to fill out the necessary paperwork as accurately as possible.

"Oh… look…. Another uterus!" He holds the diagram sideways and closes one eye.

"Shut up!" I mutter under my breath.

Just then, another nurse emerges from behind a door. "Bonnie Bennett?"

I grab Damon's hand without thinking. "Don't make me go back alone!"

"Am I even allowed to be in the room with you?"

"We are going to find out!"

I stand up, pulling him to his feet, and drag him over to the door. The magazine he had been inspecting falls to the floor.

The nurse holds her hand up. "And who is this?"

"My boyfriend," I say.

The nurse, who has bright red hair and pink cat's eyeglasses, must have heard the way my voice trembled because she has no further questions. She leads us back into an exam room and leaves a gown on the table.

"Take everything off—except your socks. The doctor will be in shortly."

She shuts the door behind her.

"Go stand outside the door!" I order, kicking my boots off.

"But it's nothing I haven't seen before!"

I shoot him a dirty look.

"Fine. Just knock on the door when I can come back in."

I do just as the nurse asks and let Damon back in the room. I then hoist myself up onto the exam table, my palms leave the paper damp with sweat.

"You know, I saw a poster out there describing the effects of herpes."

"Only you would care that much about a lousy poster." I snip.

Damon pouts dramatically. "It was very informative—it was right up your alley."

Before I can respond a tall man in an orange tie and white lab coat enters the room. He looks to be about forty years old. He takes a pair of glasses out of his coat pocket and then flips through a few pages of my chart.

"You must be Bonnie," he puts his hand out. "I'm Dr. Green."

I wipe my palm on my gown before I shake his hand "Nice to meet you."

He turns to Damon. "And you are?"

"Moral support."

"I see…"

He goes over the steps of the procedure with me. All of his words blend together, and I find myself nodding along. "But first we have to see how far along you actually are."

"It can't be more than fourteen days." At least, I seriously hope it can't.

"We still need to do an ultrasound," he insists.

I lie back. The lights that seemed so dim in the lobby are so intense now. I close my eyes. It will be over soon… The wand he uses is cold and invasive and I have to remind myself that I read up on the whole process last night—I _knew_ this was coming.

"It looks like you are about nine weeks."

My eyes snap open. The doctor turns the monitor my way.

He begins explaining how the fetus is developing. It sounds like gibberish to me, but I still act like I get it.

"I just don't see how that's possible! I did the math…. I _counted_ … "

I steal a glance at Damon, who's eyes are transfixed on the blob on the screen.

"…Can you give us a second?" Damon asks

Dr. Green gives me a knowing look. "Certainly." And then he's gone.

"…You don't want to do this." Another statement.

I shake my head regretfully. "No. I don't think I ever did. Sorry."

"Well let's go then."

"Really?"

Damon sighs. "Yeah. I mean, we are going to have to come up with a really good solution, but I'm sure you'll figure something out."

"Yeah."

He tosses my clothes at me. "Get dressed. I'm going to see if they can print out one of those scans for you."

"Wow… that's sweet of you."

"Don't flatter yourself. I just want to make sure that splotch isn't an alien."

"Damon?"

"What?"

"You can drive home."

* * *

I can't bring myself to exit the car.

We have been sitting in front of Damon's house for a good fifteen minutes, engine idling. I'm clutching the ultrasound images in my hands as if I need them to remain alive. Damon is staring straight ahead; he seems completely shell shocked.

"If we are going to do this, we are going to have to interact with each other. Probably for the rest of our lives."

He turns to look at me. "You say that like it's a death sentence."

"Well, if you told me we'd be in this position six months ago, I'd say it was."

"Plenty of women would kill to be in your spot, you know." He throws me I smile that I am forced to admit is pretty charming.

"Sorry… I'll make a mental note of that. It will boost my morale the next time I have my head in the toilet."

He laughs and knocks me on the arm playfully. "That's the spirit, champ!"

I allow myself to let go… if only for a moment. "Hey! That's reigning dart-throwing champion to you!"

I am referencing one of the nights we went to the boardwalk while at the beach. I popped three more balloons than he did. What made it better was the fact that he was such a sore loser about the whole ordeal. So childish that he made me accompany him to where a caricature artist was stationed to "make up" for my cheating. I had ripped my picture up weeks ago.

"I still took more shots than you!"

"You totally lost count after the third one!" I protest.

There's that signature Damon smirk. "That's not my fault... I was _distracted_."

My cheeks grow hot. "I'm not _distracting_!"

"I already told you—don't sell yourself short. When you calm down and stop overthinking things, you are really fun to be around."

"I _have_ to overthink things. How else am I going to get into an Ivy League college?"

Damon shrugs. "Don't know. I planned to avoid being under my dad's thumb and join the military."

"That's… wow, I didn't think you even had a plan I… that's great, Damon." I don't tell him that I think each part of his statement is great. My Uncle Marshall is in the Navy and he's had a pretty successful career thus far. And his goal has nothing to do with Mr. Salvatore's expectations. "My parents have been up my butt about it since sophomore year… it's basically the only thing they actually care about." I admit bitterly. "That's why I'm not saying anything about the baby… yet."

"I don't really know what Daddy Dearest will think. It's a toss-up between stoic shame and blind fury—not that care. I gave up on trying to live up to his standards a while ago. Stefan has got that covered."

"… You're not _that_ much of a disappointment." I joke. "Stop thinking of yourself like that. Brooding anti-hero is an overused trope."

"Did you just compare me to my brother?" he looks mildly offended.

I smile. I can't help it. "No… you're more of a Heathcliff."

"A _what?"_

 _"Who."_ I correct. "He's from one of my favorite books."

"You have more than one?"

"You might, too, if you visited a library every once in a while."

He pretends to give my suggestion serious consideration. "I'd love to, but why would I risk my reputation when I could read _Fifty Shades of Grey_ in the comfort of my room?"

"Right." I make a face at the mention of the world's worst erotic novel. "You probably can't take Rebekah to a library. She's allergic to critical thinking."

"Oh burn! Judgy strikes again!"

I glare. "I'm _not judgmental._ "

"Just a little bit." Damon counters. "It's okay… you're cute when you act all haughty."

"Gee, thanks."

He smiles at me innocently. "… you're welcome." And then in a more serious tone, "I know what I told you at school on the first day was mean. Shouldn't have said it."

I don't say anything. I'm in shock. I think that's the closest Damon's ever got to giving me an apology.

When I recover, I say, "careful Damon. I might start to think you care."

"We wouldn't want that."

"No, we wouldn't." My reply is followed by a heavy silence. Damon and I both stare straight ahead, watching as the sky begins to bleed pink, until he finally breaks it.

"I should probably go inside. It's been a long day." He gets out of my car and walks around to the passenger's side. "Drive safe, Bonster. Don't let little old ladies run you off the road."

"Take your copy before you go," I don't recognize the sound of my voice. I push the second roll of ultrasound pictures out of the open window.

He folds them up and puts them in his coat pocket. "Sweet dreams, Bon Bon!"

"Don't call me that!" I call after him. I'm surprised at how cheerful I sound.

"Night!"

I walk around to the driver's seat, conflicting emotions floating in my head.

 _At least I'm not alone_ , I think, and I begin the short drive back to my house.

* * *

"Where were you yesterday?" Caroline asks, but she doesn't really make it sound it like a question.

I shut my locker door. "I would tell you, but then I'd have to kill you."

I expect a bunch of denials to spill out of her mouth. "I'm sorry. When Elena told me, I shouldn't have bombarded you like that."

"I don't need rumors about my personal business going around the school."

Care shakes her head furiously and holds her hand up. "I won't tell a soul. Scout's honor!"

"You were never a Girl Scout," I point out. "And it's been really hard to go through this without you guys…"

"I promise! I'll be a better friend to you!"

I sigh, "You better because _Damon_ is putting you two to shame."

"You were with Damon?" Caroline whispers.

"At Planned Parenthood."

Her blue eyes go wide. "Oh Bonnie, how are you feeling? Are you cramping? We will go to my house after school and eat tubes of cookie dough."

"We can totally do that." I say, "But I have something to show you." I reach into my bag and motion for her to come closer to me

Then I show her the ultrasound images.

"Oh wow," she breathes.

I quickly shove them back into my bag, tucking them into a random notebook. "I didn't go through with it."

"What does Enzo think?"

I shush her, giving her a _very_ pointed glare. "Nothing. He doesn't know. And I'm not going to say anything yet."

"Oh my God! What does _Damon_ think?" Her eyes are as wide as saucers.

I sigh. "I don't know… I think he's okay with it." I had been stunned at his ability to stay neutral while still allowing me to change my mind.

Caroline looks over her shoulder. I follow her gaze… right to Damon and Rebekah. A feeling I don't know the name of overtakes me.

"I just hope it stays that way."


	13. A Cold Day in the Sun

* * *

**~Chapter Eleven~**

* * *

_I think it's time you walked this lonely road  
all on your own  
It's your cold day in the sun  
Looks like your bleeding heart has already won_

_~Foo Fighters, Cold Day in the Sun~_

* * *

don't seek out Enzo's company for a few days.

Our—though, in all honesty, it was mostly because of—choice to not go through with the abortion feels like it was the proverbial end to my romantic relationship with Enzo St. John.

And it makes me sad.

At first, I told myself (and Damon) that I changed my mind because it felt too real because I couldn't pretend that "it" never existed after I had physical confirmation, but deep down I know it's more than that. At that moment, it became clear that I really _couldn't_ re-tool my feelings of regret if that's what I experienced afterward.

It was _my_ choice. That was _my_ baby on the surprisingly detailed picture, even though it still kind of looked like a kidney bean. And I realized that I don't really know what _I_ want. I'm only aware of what everyone else wants _for_ (and from) me.

And sure, I still might wind up on that uncomfortable exam table again, but if I do it will be because I decided it was the right course of action. However, the more time passes, the more I feel uncomfortable with that option.

I don't understand _why,_ though.

Dating, love, marriage, and babies were never possibilities that entered my stream of conscious thoughts. But… in thinking about the blobby fetus and how much fun I had with Da— _Enzo—_ I know it's because I didn't allow myself to think of those things as a part of my future. They don't mesh well with the endless cycle of _school, school, school_ that I got used to focusing on. I just knew that I never liked the extra pressure, and that was alright—it was a necessary evil. I knew I wanted to study anything else but what Mom and Dad insisted upon, but that it didn't matter because if I were a great chemist, I would do great things.

I'd have the opportunity to save people who were perishing from illness.

I could invent a cure for cancer or a treatment for brain-eating amoebas.

I could save the world.

But I'd rather just be Bonnie—a bright, determined woman who loves her job, who is a present fixture in the lives of those she loves.

I crave the normalcy, the comfortability that those things would give me, but it won't be enough to satisfy Mom and Dad.

As I lie on my bed, arms crossed over my abdomen, eyes closed, I agonize over all of this. It feels like I've been in this pensive mode for hours and hours when my phone buzzes.

Opening one eye, I check the caller I.D.

_Enzo._

I pick up immediately.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"Listen, I'm sorry I bailed—"

"It's fine," Enzo replies coolly. "Are you okay?"

"Um, yeah. I just… Damon wanted some advice and then my phone wasn't working well." _Not a lie—sometimes service could be spotty at the beach._

He sighs in what sounds like relief. "I'm just happy it wasn't because you were still feeling sick."

"… Enzo, I'm so glad you called. I'm sorry we didn't get to spend any time together. I want to fix that."

"Do tell. How do you plan on making it up to me?"

This is dangerous, this line I'm walking. I _should_ tell him it's over—for now, at least—that I need to figure some stuff out, but I don't. I can't. I _like_ Enzo and he likes me, too. There won't be any harm in enjoying the mutual attraction for a few more weeks. Besides, Damon doesn't have to dump Rebekah. I shouldn't have to give up my boyfriend.

"How about a hike?"

"A hike?"

"Don't sound so unenthused. I promise—it'll be worth the sweat. And probably your tears, too."

"Oh—you promise?"

"Cross my heart." I make the hand motions even though he isn't able to see them.

A laugh. "I'm going to hold you to that, Bonnie."

"I wouldn't expect anything less."

"That's why I like you."

"I like that about me, too."

_~~X~~_

I am waiting for him by the park's entrance, checking my watch every other minute or so, anxious for his arrival. He's running late—as per usual—and I've concluded that it's impossible for Enzo to show up on time to any event, big or small.

He had been fifteen minutes late that day we met up at the Grille, I've noticed him lingering in the school's hallways long after the late bell rang, if he says he'll call at five he really means five-fifty, and the other times we've gone out I'm always there first.

Oh, and while I am guilty of dipping out of Tyler's kegger early—okay, _very_ early—Enzo hadn't been there when I left with Damon. We were driving out of Mystic Falls when he texted Damon, who informed him that he required my judgmental bitchiness to solve a problem.

Another excuse that was vague enough to still be true.

I received a message from him when Damon drove past the _Welcome to Mystic Falls—where our home becomes your_ sign. It was a total of three letters: u, o, and k, which roughly translates to _you okay?_

That's another thing about Enzo, though I actually love this aspect of his easy-going personality: he expresses concern without prying. Caroline could learn something from him… well, no she probably couldn't. _She's Caroline._

But Elena?

She should take notes, considering her strong convictions about my life. If she even wants to remain a part of my life, that is. We are still ignoring the other's existence and it's killing me.

I gaze up at the rainbow of red, orange, and yellow trees. Some branches totally bare, others desperately clinging to the chlorophyll-sapped leaves. It boggles my mind—the speed at which summer faded away, turning into autumn right before my eyes.

I've always been ill-at-ease with the rapid passage of time, the awareness that my window of avoiding conflict with Mom and Dad constantly tugging at the back of my mind. Sadly, under these new circumstances, it only seems to go faster.

And every little change is a reminder of that.

The sun sinks a bit lower, the sky darkening slowly. Another ten minutes go by. Parents are ushering their kids off the playground. I hear their evening schedules recited to them as they whine in protest.

One little boy is so unwilling to leave that he throws himself on the sidewalk, screaming something unintelligible as his mother grows stern with him.

 _That_ is when Enzo strolls over to me, hands in the pockets of his lightweight windbreaker. Casual posture and no sense of urgency, as if isn't bound by the same time constructs as the rest of the world. The kid, who is still thrashing around on the ground, would admire that quality in Enzo.

Sadly.

But any irritation I had for his unfashionable lateness dissolves when I meet his eyes and a huge grin breaks across his face. I return his smile when he reaches me, holding my hand out.

He bypasses my gesture completely, wrapping an arm around my waist, pulling me close, kissing me squarely on the mouth.

"I missed you," he declares, nose brushing against mine. I take a deep breath and get a whiff of his cologne, it's a different one than I am used to smelling on his skin: clean and woodsy, similar to what Damon wears.

So similar, in fact, that I'm a bit shocked when I open my eyes and I see warm, brown eyes peering at me and not icy blue ones.

Panic makes me freeze like a deer in headlights, unsettled by the brief lapse in consciousness. A psychologist would say that your sense of smell causes you to remember specific things—moments that are associated with that particular scent—but I'm horrified it happened anyway.

Damon shouldn't be on my mind.

Not now, when I'm spending time with my boyfriend, time that I probably won't have later, unless Enzo has the ability to forgive such a huge transgression (if I go through with it) or if Elena suddenly becomes vindictive and unleashes my secret to the entire student body, or if Caroline is being Caroline and has a slip of the tongue…

"… you didn't put bug spray on," I say, hoping he believes that it's the reason behind the way my back went stiff and why I gripped his forearms so tightly. "I told you to use it for a purpose—the bugs are going to eat you alive."

Enzo shrugs, chuckling. "You're so… nit-picky. I forgot. I don't suppose you want to act like a human shield between me and the mosquitos?"

"Not really—lucky for you I brought some with me." I reach into the side pocket of my bag and pull out a trial-sized bottle of bug spray.

"You're the best girlfriend ever," he says, taking my offering.

I chew on my bottom lip. I doubt he'll feel that way in a few months…

The little boy—Callum, as his mom called him in exasperation—cries even louder (a feat that I didn't think possible), causing Enzo to pause his application and look over at the pair just inside the archway of the park.

" _That's_ getting to be annoying."

"What… the boy? He's just a toddler. He doesn't get why he has to go home—he just knows what he wants. It's normal; just ignore it. He'll stop soon."

My boyfriend regards me with a look of surprise. "You're not bothered by the noise?"

"No—we're outside. By a playground. If we were at the library, then yeah, I'd hate it, but we aren't so no, I'm not." I hope I'm imagining the note of defensiveness in my reply.

"You have a point, I guess."

"Let's just get out of here. It'll be quieter where we are going."

I lead Enzo into the woods. The trees are so sparse at first that the child's cries are still audible, but it fades away when we are a few feet in. The steady chirping of crickets takes over, and it gets darker and darker with each step we take.

The trees have gotten larger, too. Their trunks wide and tall branches long and bare in places. Leaves crunch underneath our boots as we walk over them. The outdoorsy smell and chemical scent of the bug repellant mask Enzo's cologne quite nicely, which makes me feel better.

This date won't be marred by Damon or our mistake anymore.

We stop in the middle of a small clearing. The dirt floor is littered with dead leaves, and there is a giant log, lying on the ground horizontally, covered in moss. Thankfully, we don't have to dodge hidden vines or half-buried tree roots. I set my bag against our makeshift bench, taking a seat.

"It's definitely more peaceful here," Enzo remarks quietly, joining me.

I nod. "Grams used to take me here on sunny, spring afternoons. I hated it—all of it. The insects, the animals, the mud, but my grandmother loved it. Not one thing is ruined by human interference. That's why she loved it… she was more at home here than in her house."

"And you agree with her now?"

"Yeah…" I answer with a small smile. "I do. My Grams gave the best advice, told the best stories… I didn't understand it all when she was alive, but I'm trying, too, now."

"You loved her very much." One of those Damon-Esque statements.

"I did; still do." I lean into his shoulder. "That's why I wanted to take you here. I think you're pretty cool. I like you. And I wanted…" I hesitate. "… you to know that I do. I'm not exactly good at this whole dating thing, so I thought maybe this would be nice…"

"I like you, too, Bonnie." He cups my chin, tilting my face upward. "I like you a lot. You're… unlike anyone else I've met. _That's_ pretty cool."

"How's that?"

"We just have fun. There isn't any pressure… none of that confusing bullshit my exes did. You're straightforward. You don't play mind games—you're laidback. I've never met a girl like you—even my mom and sister are like that. Everything has to go their way."

I'm silent, unsure of what to say. I don't know if I'm all that easy-going. There are some things that I won't accept, but we haven't been going out long enough to know every little quirk about each other. My lack of reply is becoming awkward and I want him to say something else.

Anything else; but he doesn't

Apparently, Enzo didn't see the need in talking anymore. He kisses me again, differently this time. More intensely. Like he wants more.

More than I'm willing to give.

I've already fucked the majority of my life up; I don't feel like making it more complicated by jumping into a physical relationship with Enzo. I don't feel I know him enough—I've known Damon since childhood, much to my chagrin. He's safe. Or my drunk brain _thought_ he was, but… Enzo wasn't a Mystic Falls resident since birth. I only saw him in passing during school hours until this year.

It's a dumb justification, but it's what I'll go with if he asks why I don't want to go any further than this. Why I want to stick to kissing—why I've never been interested in any other activities beyond tentative over-the-clothes touching.

I pull away, moving his hand off my chest. "I don't think this is a good idea."

"And that is?"

"I don't want to have sex with you," I say a little more bluntly.

"You don't have to be nervous," he says reassuringly. "I know I have more experience than you, but that doesn't matter."

Yeah, he _does_ have more experience than me, but he says it like I'm totally inept, like I've got none. I guess I understand why he assumes so, as he's never seen me with guys that weren't interested in my friends, however, I don't like how he makes it seem like I should just take what he says at face value.

The way he implies that performance anxiety is my qualm, that I expect to be measured by the standards someone else set.

"I'm not nervous. I don't want to have sex with you—that's it. We've only been going out for a month. I'm not ready."

"Bonnie," he sighs, and he looks upset. "It'll be fine."

"It will," I say resolutely, with confidence and unyielding conviction. "Because we will go back to talking and laughing and it'll be fun. And we'll revisit the subject of sex later… when we _aren't_ in one of my Gram's favorite places."

"You're being ridiculous!" He grabs at the buttons of my shirt and succeeds in ripping one of them off.

I shove him off and jump to my feet. _"Get off of me."_

He's taken aback by my anger. "I'm… sorry. I'll stop."

"Not as sorry as I am," I huff, stomping away from him. "I'm going home now. I need space."

"Bonnie—I didn't mean—"

"But you did," I say without stopping or turning around. If I hurry, I'll be able to get home before dark and before my mom and dad. I can't deal with them or Enzo. I can't deal with anything now. My hormones are so out-of-whack that I'm crying a second later, out of anger, regret, and what feels like a bottomless pit of uncertainty.

I guess a few weeks of happiness is too much to ask for.


	14. The Maiden

* * *

**~Chapter Twelve~**

* * *

_Don't you like it on the sly?  
Don't you like it till it hurts?  
Have I been on your mind? What's a voice without a song?  
Something in your head  
You've been fighting all the long..._

_~Metric, Raw Sugar~_

* * *

Eleven minutes and counting.

That's when the cheerleading squad will be doing the half-time routine. The one where I will be participating in, but not in my usual capacity. Maddie will be doing my stunts—a decision I had no part in making. Caroline refused to allow me to go flying in the air "in my condition," and Damon _agreed_ with her!

" _Listen to Barbie—she's actually right for once. It's a miracle."_

I'm convinced that he only did so to annoy me. Making fun of Care had been a convenient bonus. I really don't want to read into it any more than I already have. It's not because he cares about me or the _problem-that-shall-not-be-named._ It's just Damon being Damon. I'm embarrassed by how often the elder Salvatore brother has crept into my thoughts—and not in the negative way he typically did.

Not even in the context of what we were going to do.

I'm thinking about how much fun we have together. The beach, the day we skipped half a day of school, or when he took me back to the diner when I texted him last night, complaining about wanting a cheeseburger.

How he noticed I was upset and asked me what my deal was, tossing a fry at my face.

" _Enzo and I had a fight. I'm probably going to break things off… something tells me he won't be happy when he finds out I'm pregnant. I thought about saying it was an immaculate conception, but I don't think he'll believe me."_

" _Do you still want to… go through with it, then?"_

" _I think so. Are you okay with that?"_

" _I'm not_ not _okay with it. I know I don't want to spend an hour in the car with you driving again. If that means I have to be responsible, then that's a sacrifice I'll have to make. I don't want to die of old age on the way to an abortion clinic."_

" _Okay then."_

" _Bon Bon?"_

" _Yes?"_

" _You know I love saying this, so, I told you so."_

"… _You did."_

" _What did Lorenzo do?"_

" _He just… said I was being dramatic, essentially."_

" _How dare he! You act like a drama queen? Never."_

" _Ha, ha, ha."_

" _If that's all it takes to ruin your opinion… well, I guess Enzo's pretty lucky you didn't give him a chance to fuck things up even worse… he can do a lot of damage with what little he has."_

Damon is right about that, too.

I sigh heavily.

I'm down to nine minutes now.

A few kicks, a wave of my pom-poms, and that's it. One formation. I'm regretting insisting on my one routine, I have a bit part. Bit parts don't make for stellar college applications. They give you too much downtime, too much time to think about how everything went to hell.

I _hate_ sitting on the sidelines.

And I know I wouldn't _have_ to if I just pulled the trigger. On paper, it is the most logical choice of them all. It will be like hitting the reset button on my life: I could continue down the road before me and my parents would be none the wiser. Care and Elena would know, but with time the shock value will dissipate, and it would just be a blip in their memories. And… I could just pretend like it never happened. Damon and I could still be friends… or frenemies or whatever and we will never speak of this ordeal ever again.

But every time I pluck up the courage to go back… I can't.

And Damon acts aloof—he never says anything in favor of abortion, even seems like he's cool with it, but I've never heard a yes or a no. Which is so unlike him that I'm beginning to suspect he's been replaced with a pod person.

Seven minutes to go.

The rest of the team is gathered just under the bleacher, checking their make-up, talking amongst themselves, and fixing their ponytails. Caroline is chatting with Elena, and they are both laughing. I wish I knew why. Lately, it's felt like I'm on the opposite side of a ravine and Elena has given up on trying to bring me over, even though I'm desperately hanging on to that glimmer of hope that I'll be able to get there by myself.

Care has been her bubbly self, always looking on the bright side, going back and forth between us like it's no problem whatsoever.

But I still feel out of the loop—if Care and Elena were more in sync before, then I've moved to another wavelength entirely.

She never says that, of course, but it's blatantly obvious now.

I head over to where my teammates are waiting, hanging on the outskirts of the crowd. I want to stay as far away from Elena as the space will allow. It's bad enough that I have to be next to her while we cheer, I don't want to face the wide-eyed looks of betrayal she throws my way for more than the few minutes I'm forced to endure.

I should just say sorry, fling my arms around her shoulders, beg for forgiveness, but I'm not exactly sure of what I should be apologizing for.

The football coach ushers the Mystic Falls Timberwolves off the field, and we all take our places. I paste a fake smile on my face, gripping my pom-poms tightly. I feel like a robot, but I hope I at least come off as a perky robot.

The lights shining down on us seem brighter than they had been at previous games. The crowd screams louder, the pressure I felt the very first time I stood in front of the audience comes back with a vengeance. My throat burns from puking my guts out twenty minutes ago and I can feel Elena's eyes on me.

I don't give her the satisfaction of acknowledging her sadness like I had during practices and focus on the risers full of spectators, a sea of gray and red intermixed with the other teams school colors—black and purple.

The routine ends too quickly. I'm right back where I was before, and I hate it.

When we're back on the sidelines, I spot my brown-haired best friend, searching for something inside her drawstring bag.

I start making my way over, hoping to patch things up somehow, but her head jerks up when I'm almost there. This time, I'm not met with sorrow. She's glaring at me with such vitriol that I freeze, anger bubbling in my chest. She's regarding me like I'm a predator; a threat.

Seeing as my emotions have been wildly intense lately, I don't trust myself to not make things worse. So, I take a deep breath, retreating to the locker room so I can get my stuff and go home.

Locking myself in my bedroom to binge-watch _America's Next Top Model_ for the third night in a row will have to do. Maybe, if I call ahead, I can ask Milly to set aside an order of onion rings for me…

_It's six-fifty now, if I move fast, I should be able to get there before Milly leaves and Rina starts her shift._

The universe must really have it out for me, though. I stop to put on my gray hoodie before I leave the school grounds, and then when I look up again, I see Enzo.

A very pissed off Enzo.

He's shouting at someone. Upon first glance, I can't tell who is on the other side of the quarrel, but the person's identity becomes clear when he steps under the moonlight.

Damon.

I venture a little closer. Out of morbid curiosity, though I know I probably shouldn't. I'm not surprised that these two are arguing—it could be about anything. They haven't been as chummy with each other lately. Maybe their problems have finally come to ahead.

Once I'm in earshot, I conceal myself behind a purplish 2003 Oldsmobile and listen.

"Why do you care?" Enzo is asking.

"Because she's my friend—one of my best friends—now why the fuck is she mad at you?"

 _Okay, Damon could be referring to any number of girls that fawn over them. They're probably talking about Rebekah;_ I reason with myself. The alternative is one I don't want to consider.

"She's mad because I told her she was a tease—she says one thing and does another!"

"Don't talk about her like that. She doesn't owe you anything." Damon's voice is even, not loud or aggressive, but menacing. A warning.

Enzo groans in exasperation. "I'm _not_ losing one hundred bucks to Kai because of an uptight bitch!"

"What are you talking about?"

"I bet Kai one hundred bucks I could take Bennett's virginity."

" _What the fuck did you just say?"_ he spits out through clenched teeth.

"Are you mad because you care or because you won't get a cut of the money?"

The irony might have been an interesting plot device in a book or movie, but the reality of it is so fucking disgusting that it makes my skin crawl.

Enzo never really liked me… he just thought I'd be an easy target, a quick way to make money.

I try to swallow the lump in my throat to no avail. My hands are shaking with rage. I want to kill Enzo. But that would be too kind. I want to hurt him so badly that he won't recover, maybe just enough that he'll have to live with the embarrassment of knowing that I got my revenge.

But Damon beats me to the punch—literally.

I can barely see his fist connect with Enzo's face (my vantage point isn't exactly that direct) but I definitely hear it. I can also see Enzo stumble backward, screaming obscenities as his hands fly in the direction of his face.

_Wow._

The second-hand vindication is delightful, but I can't ride the high for long. I'm overwhelmed with guilt when Enzo regains balance and swings at Damon—hitting him right in the stomach.

I flinch.

That _had_ to hurt.

What I do next probably isn't my brightest idea, but I figure it can't be worse than anything else I've done in the last three months. Surely, it can't be any worse than having a one-night stand that ends in an unplanned pregnancy.

I march over to where Enzo and Damon are fist-fighting, with more tenacity than I've been able to exude in a long time.

"What the hell are you _doing?"_ I demand, planting my hands on my hips.

" _I'm_ being your best friend," Damon says, turning on Enzo accusingly. _"He's_ being a pathetic fuckwad."

"Are you here to make up with me?" I can't tell if Enzo is being serious or sarcastic. Losing to Kai isn't something I think he wants to experience, so I'm pretty sure he means it.

I direct all my fury at Enzo. _"No,_ I'd rather stick needles in my eyes. I'm here to make sure you two Neanderthals don't kill each other."

"Rude," Damon mutters behind me.

"Whatever. He'll get in trouble when I report him to Principal Felix. You will, too. I don't think Yale will take a girl who instigates physical fights between friends."

Damon is going to say something crude; I can tell by the way he scoffs. I don't let him speak—not when I can put an end to this. Besides, I kind of owe him one for defending my innocence—well, presumed innocence, I guess.

Then we'll be even.

"You're not going to do that."

"Like hell I'm not."

"I'll can just as easily tell the principal that you tried to rip off my shirt. That won't be looked on too kindly."

Enzo chuckles darkly. "I don't know why I even made that much of an effort. You're not worth the hassle.”

I recall the time that Damon said something similar to me. It dredges up old wounds that have scabbed over, been apologized for, but it still hurts just the same. What if Damon meant it? What if he told Enzo about our confrontation in the hallway?

Only, Damon ignores the reference—if it was one—and focuses on the first part. "If you touch her again, I swear to God, I _will fucking kill you!"_

"Sure, you will," Enzo sneers, wiping the blood trickling out of his nose on his sleeve. "You're just lucky she saved you."

"Go away," I tell Enzo. "Or I can get the principal now… is that what you want?"

"I'm leaving," he assures me, trudging off into the darkness.

"Are you alright?" I turn to Damon, who is slightly hunched over, breathing heavily. I rush to his side and wrap an arm around his waist.

"Couldn't be better," he grunts.

I take him over to my car. He leans against the blue Prius casually, though he straightens up after a minute. I throw my bag in the backseat and my pom-poms in the trunk—out of sight, out of mind. When I approach him again, he's standing without using the hood of my car for balance.

I'm not convinced he's totally recovered. "I'll take you to a med express unit just to be sure."

"Careful Bonnie, I might start to think you care."

"Wouldn't want that," I say with a grin.

He returns it halfheartedly. "Besides, we don't have a decent track record with doctors—we skipped out on the last one."

"Something tells me you won't need that kind of treatment. You don't have the right anatomy—I checked. Looks nothing like the pictures you showed me."

"You think about me naked?"

"No," I say, and I'm blushing. I just know it. "I—"

"… just can't get over the magnificence that is my dick—don't worry. I've gotten that a lot."

"Shut up!"

"But you're blushing—that's how I know I'm winning."

" _Damooon!"_ I groan, much louder than I intended.

"I get that a lot, too."

"Ugh, you're such an ass!"

"You love it!"

"No, I love onion rings, which I was going to get until I came to your rescue."

"You can stop at Burger King and get some. When I'm not with you, of course. That's an hour away with your driving."

I roll my eyes. "You know, maybe I want a taco instead… isn't there a Taco Bell near Whitmore?"

"That's _literally_ an hour away and that's if an old lady is driving—that's two hours in the car both ways Bonnie time."

"Oh, well. I want tacos." I shrug.

"I'll make you pancakes," he counters. "I'm a pancake connoisseur."

"I guess that works," I amend.

"Thank _God!"_ he sighs in relief. "I can't believe I willingly signed up for nine months of this."

"Me either." _But I'm starting to feel glad he did._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to time constraints, I will post the rest of the story tomorrow. Once that is done, I'll remove this note. Thank you for your patience!


	15. It Starts with Pancakes

* * *

**~Chapter Thirteen~**

* * *

_Come inside and lie down to sleep  
You ain't gonna run and you know that you're beat  
Rest awhile, they're coming for you  
There's a price to be paid for the things that we do_

_~Lord Huron, Lullaby~_

* * *

I pull up to Damon's house, expecting him to get out and go inside without so much as a thank you, but he doesn't. He sits there, watching me with a semi-impatient facial expression.

"Are you coming in or not?"

I raise an eyebrow. "Inside?"

"Yes. Inside. Do you want me to draw you a map?"

"You… want me to stay?"

I'm given a dramatic eye roll in response. "Yes—for pancakes. I'm not interested in having a sleepover with you. It's not like I want you to paint my nails and tell me your deepest secrets—I wasn't kidding about the talking in your sleep or snoring. It's annoying and I'd feel bad if I had to smother you with a pillow to get you to shut up."

"You were serious." I state, studying him carefully. "You want to make me pancakes."

"More like I don't want you to text me at three in the morning because you're hungry, but if you want to make it more special than it is, go for it."

"Okay." I turn the car off and follow Damon up the walkway, past his Camaro and into the garage, which is bigger than my bedroom.

Shelves are stocked with containers of oil and anti-freeze. A worktable is off to the side with a blue toolbox sitting in the middle and saws, hammers hanging above it on the wall. Aside from those items, I wouldn't be able to tell that this is a storage space. The walls are painted a slate gray and the floor is gray-and-white marble.

"Will I get to meet your dad?" I ask casually, as if the idea doesn't intimidate me. Really, I just want to avoid any conversation that might reveal _the why_ behind Damon's invitation.

He snorts, saying nothing at first. And then, in a more serious manner, "no—he and whatever-her-name-is are at the game. Watching Stefan sit on the bench."

"Your brother's the star quarterback."

"You say that like he's Jesus or something."

When we enter the house, we walk straight into the largest kitchen I've ever seen. Brilliant white-and-black tiled floor and cabinets made from elm wood. An island so large that it resembles a dining table and rows of pots and pans hanging above one of those high-tech ovens.

"Well, if you ask Elena she'd say he is."

"Yeah, probably. She hasn't spoken to me in days—she looks at me like I killed her puppy or something. In fact, she accused me of ruining you. So, same difference, I guess. Personally, I feel like I should get a medal or something for corrupting the nicest person in town."

I chew on my lip guiltily. I feel like it's my fault she treats Damon like he has the plague. "It has more to do with me than you."

"She had me fooled, then." He opens up a cupboard and grabs a mixing bowl from the top shelf.

"We got into an argument. She's not exactly thrilled about everything."

He gathers the rest of the ingredients and equipment from various counters around the room, saving the milk, butter, and eggs until the end. Purposely, I'm sure, so his back is to me when he answers, so he can sound distracted as he searches for what he needs.

"Well, I'm not thrilled either. Are you?"

"No, but—"

"Luckily for her, it has nothing to do with what Elena wants."

"Not directly no, but—"

" _So,"_ Damon intones, finally turning to face me. "I don't get why she's so butthurt about it. _Her_ life isn't going to change."

His reaction hurts. Damon is clearly frustrated with the situation.

"It sounds like you're more butthurt than she is." I don't know why I sound so accusatory. I'm not sure I like it.

"I probably am." He says, shutting the refrigerator door with his foot. "It's half my problem."

I _know_ I don't like the pain his answer elicits in me. "If it's such a problem then you should have told me you didn't want to leave the clinic."

When he looks at me, I see a flash of sadness that disappears in an instant. "You think I'm trying to placate you? Contrary to popular belief, I care about a lot of things. And if I didn't want to do whatever it is we are doing—then I'd fucking _say_ that."

"You really care about…" I trail off, searching for the right words. "This… me?"

"If I didn't, I would have bet against Enzo. It would be like taking candy from a baby. Instead of making myself a hundred bucks richer, I tried to kill him."

I go quiet and still, watching as he combines everything and mixes it together in a way that makes me think he's imagining Enzo's face. He's gripping the handle of the spoon with such ferocity that I'm afraid it will snap in half.

"You're right," I admit, casting my eyes downward. "I'm… sorry."

Damon feigns shock. "I must be dreaming—did _Bonnie Bennett_ just say she was wrong?"

"I said _you_ were right—there's a difference. But… I guess I do owe you a thank you. It was really sweet of you to defend my honor."

"You're welcome—thanks for saving me from suspension. I guess I'll have to study for that test on Monday, though. So, you suck for that."

"You were doing so well and then…" I pantomime an explosion.

"Can't be _too_ nice to you. I don't want you getting the wrong idea."

"Me? Have a wrong idea?" I wave the thought away. _"Yeah right."_

As Damon prepares to dump the batter into a skillet, he glances over his shoulder. He's staring right through me, his voice deadly serious as he speaks. "Did he really rip your shirt off?"

"Yes. Well, more like a few buttons. But I took care of it."

"That doesn't mean he shouldn't pay for it."

I'm a bit touched by his outrage on my behalf. Touched and startled. "… Damon, thank you, but I'm going to need you to stay away from the police station, so just… forget about it for now. Okay? I can take care of myself."

"Believe me, I found that out a long time ago, but you shouldn't always have to."

I smile to myself as he plates the pancakes in a neat stack, garnishing each one with berries and whipped cream. "… those better be the best pancakes I've ever had, Salvatore. I'm starving.”

"Bonster, I'm pretty sure _I'm_ the best you will ever have. Don't doubt the power of pancakes."

"Your ego is way over-inflated. Rebekah must feel so lucky to orbit around your fat head."

"Who wouldn't be?"

* * *

When I wake up on Monday, I am greeted with a barrage of missed calls and text messages. Most of them are from Caroline—no real surprise there—and one from Damon.

_You're taking me to the movies this weekend. I feel I should be compensated for that horror film you forced me to sit through. Oh, and bring some candy with you. Not those circus peanut things, though. They taste like ass._

I smile to myself, setting my phone back on the nightstand. _The Bodyguard_ is hardly scary, but Damon (despite the fact that he _told_ me to pick a movie out) spent the duration of the film listing all the things wrong with it.

I tuned him out at a certain point, but I should have known he'd ask for something in return.

He _is_ still Damon, after all.

I don't reply to anything. I will see Caroline in an hour, and I don't know how I should respond to Damon's scathing movie review. With a no, probably, as I'm sure the whole student body has heard one of the four versions of the altercation between the two hottest seniors—namely, that I had something to do with it. I don't want people to talk. The more fuel that's added to a rumor, the more outrageous it gets. What's worse is the fact that someone always figures out the truth behind it.

I have no clue what I'll do when I can't control the narrative any longer, when I'm no longer able to deny the stories, and I don't want to deal with that today. I just hope that Elena isn't mad enough to throw me under the bus. It is hard enough dealing with her silent fury, if she vocalizes it, there won't be any going back.

And I'm sure she's not pleased with Damon acting reckless, _again—_ and I would like to think that she wouldn't care as much because he was defending her best friend, but that won't matter. Best friends don't sleep with the object of the other's affections—even if she is dating said object's brother and has no intention (she hopes) of acting on those feelings.

The rest of my morning is spent in the bathroom.

I had been hoping that I would be able to avoid puking altogether, but one whiff of the coffee Mom was brewing nixed that plan. I was surprised to see her in the kitchen. She took the morning off so she could stay at work later.

" _Didn't you see the memo, Bonnie Bear?"_

No, because I still haven't been able to pretend to care about them. Of course, I didn't tell _her_ that, but a tiny part of me really wanted to.

The drive to school isn't much better. I chalk that up to nerves, though. Even if it isn't true; anxiety can cause nausea and that will be my stock answer if people start to bug me about anything that happened at the football game. _Can't talk about it. I'm worried about Tanner's unit test today. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to barf._

When I walk into the building, no one looks my way. The chatter continues as if I were invisible. As I pass a group of sophomores, they don't look my way or fall silent. They're talking about Tyler's party. Still, even after a week. According to Care, it had a lot to do with how she planned it. I took her at her word—it's not like I was there long enough to form my own opinion.

I am getting a few textbooks from my locker when Caroline gets my attention.

"Bon—you've been ignoring my texts. Are you okay?"

She stands in front of me, looking perfect, just like she always does. Curly blonde hair straightened, jeans designer, and make-up applied flawlessly. I was going to do my own make-up this morning but vomiting so much causes my eyes to water and that defeats the purpose of mascara.

"I'm sorry, Care. I…"

"Wanted to tell you where I went after halftime in-person." She finishes for me, a huge grin on her face.

"Well, yeah. But I was also not feeling well this morning—so, seeing as you came over on Sunday, I thought you'd keep your cool until you saw me."

She laughs. "Yeah, like I'm supposed to believe _that_ one. You know me better than that!"

"I left because I wanted onion rings."

Pointed glare. _"And?"_

"And Elena still seemed upset. So, I was going to go home and watch _America's Next Top Model."_

"Wait—what season? _Please,_ tell me it wasn't cycle nineteen."

"Seven." I assure her. "Cycle nineteen was awful."

"Well, then why did Aimee Bradley come up to me saying she heard you were having a threesome with Damon and Enzo under the bleachers?"

" _What the hell! That's_ what the rumor is?" I slam the locker door so hard a few students actually turn to stare at us.

Care nods solemnly. "One of them. I told her that she better shut up and inform everybody it isn't true—or else I'd tell everyone she is so obsessed with Rebekah that she steals her underwear after gym and keeps them in a Ziploc bag in her locker."

"Creative—thanks, I love you Care."

"I know. I'm awesome. So… details?"

I sigh. "Damon got mad at Enzo. For… upsetting me… and punched him. I just went over there so it didn't escalate."

"Fuck, I never thought I'd agree with _Damon,_ but then again I never thought you two would—" she makes a lewd gesture with her hands. "Either. What did that jackass do? Enzo, I mean."

I had been planning to repress that particular memory, as I never intended on even _looking_ in his direction again, but that doesn't seem to be in the cards today. "He… just tried to have sex with me after I said no."

" _I'll fucking kill him."_ Caroline says darkly. She sounds so much like Damon that it's a little scary.

"You don't have to—I think I made my point when I pushed him off of me."

"You should have pushed his dick off of him!"

"What does that mean?" I pause to make sense of her phrasing. "Castrate him? I would have, but he tried to apologize right after. I told him I didn't want him near me. But… after that, I took Damon home. We ate pancakes and watched a movie. The end."

"Did you guys fuck again?"

" _Care!"_

" _Well—did you?"_

I avert my eyes, tucking the books inside of my bag. "No, we didn't. He's with Rebekah."

"I think you trump her—you're having his baby."

"Thanks for the reminder. I almost forgot."

Caroline watches me. "You _are_ going to have his baby, right?"

"I'm not _not_ going to," I say slowly, gauging her reaction. "We… still have to discuss the finer details. But we're on the same page—I think." The anger he had when I said he didn't care made it clear that we are, but there are no guarantees in life—unfortunately.

"Oh my God! I'm going to be an aunt!" She whispers excitedly.

"I… don't know about that yet, Care." I say hastily, looking around the halls to make sure nobody overheard.

Everything is as it was before. My classmates are wrapped up in their own conversations.

"Well, if I am, you're going to have to tell me first. Nieces require cute clothes proclaiming the greatness of their aunts."

"Okay, Care. Who else would I tell?"

She mulls this over. "Good point—hey, maybe Elena and I could get matching t-shirts. Oh, Stefan could have one, too."

"I don't think Elena would be into that."

"She might not be now, but she will later. You know she always comes around… she's just… mourning the loss of a chance with Damon. She also doesn't know that yet."

"I didn't take it from her. He hated me for a long time."

Caroline rolls her eyes at me, like I'm being purposefully obtuse. "I'm, like, ninety-nine percent sure that was UST."

"UST?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Unresolved sexual tension," she explains. "Haven't you ever seen a teen romance movie? Don't answer that. Clearly, you need to pay more attention when I pick what we watch on slumber party nights. Damon wanted to jump your bones. Now he has. And you guys are, like, best friends now. She loves Stef, but you know she has a weakness for bad boys. And she doesn't want to admit it, but she can't tell Damon it'll never happen if he doesn't act like he wants it to happen."

"He sleeps around more than he changes his underwear. Why hasn't she hated his _actual_ girlfriends?"

"She's never actually _liked_ any of them—you know her code name for Rebekah."

I do; it's not very creative: stupid bitch.

"They weren't competition. And you are. Personally, I think Damon's more tolerable now that you two aren't at each other's throats and he isn't kissing Elena's ass, but she isn't used to it. Don't worry too much; you and I both know she just wants him to want her."

"Wow, that's catchy line. You should turn it into a song or something."

"What?"

"Sorry—Damon has a Cheap Trick poster in his bedroom."

"Ha—I _knew_ you were in his room."

"For, like, a minute. Yeah."

"Sure, a minute." She uses air quotes.

The thing about Caroline is she's very good at reading people, and while it was nothing more than a brief moment, searching for the remote he stole from the living room because he lost the one he had for his own television, she has a keen ability to pick up on _feelings._ And while emotions don't write your every action in stone, they certainly drive them.

Caroline is looking at me like she knows exactly where I want to end up.

Even if I don't know it myself.


	16. exile

* * *

**~Chapter Fourteen~**

* * *

_I can see you standin', honey  
With his arms around your body  
Laughin' but the joke's not funny at all  
And it took you five whole minutes  
To pack us up and leave me with it  
Holdin' all this love out here in the hall_

_~Taylor Swift (feat. Bon Iver), exile~_

* * *

"These were the only kind they had left. Stop being a baby and just take them."

"I hate Mounds. Not only is that a horrible name for a candy bar, but it tastes like cardboard covered in chocolate."

I pull my phone out and scroll through my messages until I find the one that will absolve me from this so-called "abhorrent attempt at poisoning by candy."

I thrust the incriminating directions in his face. "It says right here—anything but circus peanuts." I point to the giant Mounds bar in his hands. "I know your ability to read is worse than a preschooler's, but just sound it out. Mounds and circus peanuts aren't phonetically alike."

"Your attempt at deflecting isn't working. Just admit that I have better taste than you."

"Says the guy dating Klaus's sister."

"You had a crush on a Jonas Brother," he retorts triumphantly.

"Yeah," I mutter. "When I was twelve."

Damon doesn't care about timelines, though. "Can't erase the past, Bon Bon. Your schoolgirl crush is way more embarrassing than my love life."

"Says _you."_ I snip, wondering why I brought Rebekah up in the first place.

He grins like the Cheshire cat. "However, I'm willing to forgive you for this—" he waves the candy bar in my face, copying what I did with the cell phone. "Because I'm a generous person. You're welcome."

Damon strides across the parking lot, toward the ticket booth in front of the movie theater.

"I'm not thanking you for that!" I protest loudly, trying to catch up with him.

I know he hears me. I can tell because a smirk is pulling at the corners of his mouth when I reach him. There's also a devilish gleam in his eyes that lets me know he's enjoying every second of my indignation. The girl behind the glass doesn't realize that though, I think she believes he's checking her out. She's batting her thick eyelashes at him, flipping her long brown hair over her shoulder, and giggling.

She resembles Elena closely, but she's shorter than my best friend by a good inch. Her hair is also a shade lighter and longer. I peek at Damon from the corner of my eye. Maybe I'm mistaken, maybe he _is_ flirting with her. It's more likely than I'm willing to admit, especially since the real Elena is ignoring him. And he and Rebekah are fighting over something he refuses to talk about.

For the third time this month.

"Two for the eight 'o clock showing of _Villains_ please," he says smoothly.

The girl notices me for the first time. Apparently, my approach hadn't been a distraction until Damon asked for two tickets instead of one. She does her best to hide her irritation.

She's doing it horribly, though. When she punches a few numbers on the cash register, she's unnecessarily aggressive and when she speaks again, her voice is an octave higher. "Sure thing. One ticket for you and one for your…"

"Best friend," Damon supplies with a disarming smile.

The relief she displays is more annoying than it should be. "Oh, your friends. That's a surprise. I would have thought you had a girlfriend with looks like those." She nods at him with yet another obnoxious giggle.

Man, subtlety isn't her forte.

"He does." My voice is flat.

" _Actually,"_ Damon interjects quickly. "My girlfriend's upset with me right now."

" _She's not the only one,"_ I mutter under my breath.

The girl, who's wearing a polo with the name _Clarice_ stitched across the breast pocket, smiles widely. "I'm sorry to hear that."

She certainly doesn't sound it, but whatever. I toy with the idea of telling her that he's only leading her on, that his massive ego doesn't allow him to forgo the charm he exudes, but I know I'm just being moody.

It doesn't matter if his relationship with Rebekah is on the rocks. It makes no difference to me if he wants to have a fling with a college girl who works in a movie theater an hour outside of Mystic Falls. Sure, he _should_ be worried about something else entirely, but I'm not his keeper. And I shouldn't involve myself in his love life, my focus needs to be elsewhere. Yet, here I am, trying to separate my opinions on our responsibilities with Damon's ability to think about anything other than sex—because how can he do what he needs to if he's worried about Elena or Rebekah or Clarice or the next person he sees?

"… you know, maybe we could meet up next week if your girlfriend is still upset. Sometimes the best way to get over someone is to get under someone new."

_Okay, that actually makes me want to blow chunks._

"See Clarice, I've got a lot going on right now," Damon throws an arm around me. "And that's kind of why Bonster and I are here. I wanted to have some fun before shit hits the fan, so to speak."

"That's… disappointing. I, uh, hope things get better."

"Yeah, it kind of is. I'm going to have to be a lot _more_ responsible—family obligations, you know? And that's not really my thing. Bon Bon here doesn't have any faith in me. Can you believe that?"

Clarice shoots me a glare. It's so mean-spirited that you would have thought Damon said I killed someone. "That's not encouraging."

"Okay, Damon. There's a line. And it's getting dark and cold and I told you I wanted to get nachos before the movie starts."

"Well, if you decide you want someone nicer to talk with, here's my number." She jots it down on the receipt and hands it to him along with our tickets.

Once we've stepped out of line, Damon shrugs his leather jacket off and drapes it over my shoulders. "If you wanted my attention, you should have said so."

That stupid, smug, infuriating, _asshole_. "Like you're better than nachos. And you know you're hot, why _must you always_ flirt with every girl you run into?"

"You think I'm hot, huh?"

"As if."

"You're the one that said it; not me."

"I did not!" I huff, stomping my foot.

"Okay, then give me my jacket back."

I clutch the leather, pulling it closer to me. "No. I'm cold—it's past seven pm in _October._ If you just bought tickets like a normal person, I wouldn't have had to stand outside for fifteen minutes in this weather."

"You could have gone back and gotten your sweater from the car," he points out loftily.

"I don't think it fits me at the moment—which is half _your_ fault!"

Damon gives me a once over before opening the door to let me inside. "You look the same to me. And that sweater doesn't even have buttons. So, your argument is bullshit."

I grab a ten-dollar bill from the pocket of my jeans. "Just get me the biggest possible nachos and a large cherry coke."

"That thing already looks like an alien; you want it to grow four arms because you're addicted to caffeine?"

"Just get me my fucking soda, Damon!"

He gives me a thumbs up. "It would be my pleasure, Bon Bon, but maybe you should listen to what—" he double-checks the receipt— "Clarissa said and be a little nicer."

I want to tell him that he didn't use the correct name, to say that he's being a jerk, but he places the money back in my hand, and I'm suddenly at a loss for words.

"I've got it. You got the chocolate bar; besides, I like nachos, too. And I'm buying popcorn, so I don't have to starve because you're hogging everything else."

God, he's so confusing. "Thanks… well, except for the part about me being a hog."

But he's already sauntering over to the concession stand, leaving me in the middle of the lobby. Next to a poster for the upcoming _Joker_ film and a pair of sisters—one significantly older than the other—bickering over how much money they should waste on arcade games.

I head over to the bathrooms, feeling overcome with emotion that I don't know how to handle and the smell of crappy movie-theater butter. I stare at myself in a full-length mirror, which is covered in fingerprints from top to bottom.

I guess Damon's right—I _do_ look the same, save for a pound or so—but I certainly don't _feel_ that way, even though I spend a lot of time trying to convince myself otherwise. I definitely react more than I pause to consider my options—a side-effect of hormones, of course. And it's a huge adjustment for me, but now that Damon's pointing it out, I wonder if I'm sending the wrong message.

I don't like Damon the way everyone is implying, and I don't want him to start believing the press because he'll make fun of me mercifully for it. And when he gets something in his mind, it's game over.

No going back.

And let's face it, Damon doesn't need extra ammo. I've given him enough already.

* * *

The movie hadn't been all that bad.

Sure, it was weird. But at least it wasn't boring or predictable. There was actual character growth and the ending was bittersweet but satisfying—I would never have gone to see it on my own—its release is limited—but I'm glad Damon decided to take me. I thought the ride out of town would be for naught, that I'd be tired, grumpy, and pissed that I sat through a crappy film when I could've finished my homework and gone to bed early.

The temperature has dropped another couple of degrees by the time we exit the theater. I'm sure it's more apparent because I gave the coat back to Damon in exchange for my nachos. I am only semi-aware of the goosebumps on my arms anyway.

I'm too busy trying to wrestle the popcorn bucket out of Damon's hands. He's pelting me with the leftover kernels because he claims I started a popcorn war when I threw some at him. Which, okay, I guess I did. But only after he declared that he'd rather let someone kill him if the alternative was being handcuffed to me; as the two main characters had been.

Damon releases the bucket, but not before grabbing a few pieces of popcorn. I hold the container up as a shield and when he lobs the entire handful at me, I'm confident I've blocked them all.

I take the one lone kernel from the bin and throw it at his face. It bounces off his nose and lands on the pavement. "That was the last one—I win!"

"Well, _yeah._ You got to spend time with me—that's a win for anyone." he actually sounds like he truly believes that. "And I wouldn't be so smug if I were you. You only won by half a point."

"How did you come up with that?"

"Easy," he says, pulling a popcorn kernel out of my hair. It landed in your hair instead of down the front of your shirt—which is where I wanted it to go."

"You're such a sore loser! Stop making excuses—you lost because you have crappy hand-eye coordination!"

"I'm not—I was hoping I'd get to watch you pull popcorn out of your bra"

I throw the now-empty bucket atop his head. "You're disgusting!"

"I'm aware," he says, returning the favor.

I'm ripping the bin off of my head when a soft breeze picks up. I shiver involuntarily, not expecting it to be as cold as it is.

"If I get hypothermia because of you, I'm sending you the hospital bill, Bennett." He tosses his leather jacket at me without much warning,

I catch it by the sleeve. "I'm not paying it—you can take it back."

"Just put the damn jacket on, Judgy."

"Bossy!"

"I learned from the best," he informs me, a stupid smirk still on his face.

I ignore the jibe, shoving my arms into the sleeves. The warmth from his body lingers on the material, along with his cologne and deodorant. The scents mix, creating one that's uniquely Damon, one that I'm embarrassed to like as much as I do. In part, because Elena's mad at me for this… not that going to the movies is a _thing_ but given recent events she sees it differently. Especially considering how _complex_ her feelings for Damon have become.

I feel guilty for ignoring her crush. Care has still sworn up and down that our sisterhood remains intact, that Elena is calming down as we speak or eat or study. But I don't see how that's possible when she knows Damon and I are out having a good time.

It's why I didn't tell her about any of it in the first place.

"So, when are you going to tell me about the fight you had with Rebekah?" I ask because thinking about Elena isn't going to make anything better. It only serves to remind me that a mistake can do more damage than expected.

Damon groans and rolls his eyes. It's such a theatrical response and with Damon that could mean one of two totally different things: that he's just trying to be difficult or that whatever's bothering him is actually really serious.

Though, how he anything could top the clusterfuck of a situation we are in, I don't understand.

"Why do you _care?"_

"I just thought as your best friend, I might be able to help."

"I don't need help—especially the judgmental kind you're offering."

"Okay. Keep arguing with her. But you won't be able to go out with Elena 2.0 if you don't admit that you and Rebekah aren't compatible and end things before someone's feelings get hurt."

"Who said anything about…"

"Clarice."

Damon snaps his fingers. "Yeah—that's her name. Who said anything about her?"

"You kept the receipt with her number on it. You only do that if there isn't a trashcan around."

"Wow, you're so observant it's borderline creepy. Go ahead, check the pockets. I got rid of it while you were busy trying to assault me with snack foods."

"I'll take your word for it," I say, voice steady. "I was just trying to help you out. Mostly because _I_ don't want to spend the next eighteen years around Rebekah and I'm pretty sure she is already planning your wedding."

"She's not like Caroline. If she has a delusion like that, I'm not part of it—and she doesn't. Besides, it's _just casual._ And fighting just means really good make-up sex later."

That doesn't exactly eliminate my reservations. "Okay…"

"Oh, God there you go with the _'okay,'"_ he lilts in a surprisingly accurate imitation. He even raises his eyebrows, looking downward just as I always do.

My eyes narrow and my hands are on my hips. The sleeves are so long on me that they disappear completely. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"That you think I'm doing something wrong," he states flatly. "You're not that hard to figure out, Bennett."

"Damon—I just don't…" I don't know how to put what I'm feeling into words. "I'm just…I guess I care about you—kind of. And… I don't want you to… get hurt."

"How sweet of you to say that…" he replies mockingly, though the next thing he says sounds genuine. "I care about you, too—kind of."

I chuckle. Those words go a lot deeper than you would think. Kind of is synonymous with totally in Damon-and-Bonnie-speak, a word of high praise.

"It's still mostly because I don't want Rebekah near me. I'd say it's eighty percent about disliking Rebekah and twenty percent about you."

"I wouldn't expect anything different—the real test of our friendship is if I'm more important to you than a large order of onion rings from the diner."

"I'll have to get back to you on that one."

"It's okay, I like the onion rings better than I like you. Don't feel too bad—the veggie burger is below you."

"Thank God—my self-esteem couldn't take it if you liked a veggie burger more than me!"

"Rest assured, Bennett—I promise you that you will always rank higher than a veggie burger."

That one doesn't have a direct translation in our personal dictionary, but something about the way he smiles and opens the car door for me lets me know that it's a good thing.


	17. Friends

* * *

**~Chapter Fifteen~**

* * *

_Friendship isn't about whom you have known the longest…it's about who came, and never left your side._

_~Anonymous~_

* * *

As I sit at the kitchen table, forcing myself to finish my bowl of cereal, I muddle through by thinking about how thankful I am that my life has gone back to some semblance of normalcy. I'm doing well in all of my classes, I've requested a few letters of recommendation from my favorite teachers, and Damon and I have been hanging out regularly.

The last one is simultaneously the craziest and best facet of everything going on. It's not tiresome, I don't have to put on an act, and it's not stressful (though I know we are going to have to face the music at some point; hopefully, a few months from now). I don't have to worry if my parents will figure out my secret without me having to tell them myself (and I don't know which scenario would be better, as both seem pretty awful in their own way). And we both are currently on Elena's shit list (I don't know which of us is more upset by it).

And somehow, it _just works._

Even in the face of all the challenges.

Though, things would be much better if Elena didn't hate me. That problem eats at me more than the others. Elena and Care have always been _there._ Present. Even when my parents weren't and not having her support is far more painful than it would be if my mom and dad ended up reacting in the same manner.

Because I don't really _talk_ with them. I love them both, but we are orbiting different planets most of the time. And Elena… I could always count on her to _try,_ to be my friend even if she didn't notice something was wrong right away, she used to always fix it by listening when she did pick up on it.

And I know the separation is starting to take its toll on Care now. She's still been upbeat about our reconciliation but now there's an edge of uncertainty in her voice when she tells me Elena asked about me.

Probably because she wants to know if I've followed her advice.

I know it's also put a strain on her relationship with Stef. At least, according to Damon it has. And I'm the catalyst for it all.

And that sucks.

I finally give up on finishing my breakfast. My stomach is turning and Damon won't let me live it down if he has to wait for me to surrender to half a serving size of Fruit Loops; if I'm running late because if he knew that ahead of time, he would have slept in instead of waking up on time to drive to school with me.

" _I can't believe I got out of bed to watch you run around unprepared after you spent_ years _telling me it was irresponsible to show up late to school. The tables have turned, Judgy. I wish I could enjoy it, but I woke up early for this. And I get nothing in return—not even a sorry or a thank you. Rude."_

That's his spiel and he never deviates from it. Every intonation and pause is copied in the same way each time. Quite frankly, I stopped listening mid-way through the third time he recited it. Now, I tune him out completely, but the fact that I can hear it so clearly in my own head is disconcerting.

He's like a disease.

A disease that is knocking on the door, loudly, signaling his arrival—like a fever that has suddenly spiked.

I don't bother letting him in, he's developed this annoying habit of doing that himself. I head into the dining room, where my messenger bag is draped on the back of a chair. Damon has already taken the seat directly across from my school supplies, fingers drumming against the table.

" _Finally,"_ he throws his hands up in the air. "I was beginning to think someone kidnapped you or something. Do you know how long I've been waiting?"

I look up from the pile of papers I was leafing through and glare. "A minute."

"Not if you count yesterday."

"I was getting sick! I'm sorry if my health and well-being inconveniences you!"

"You're getting better at the whole guilt-tripping thing. I'm proud of you. I almost believed you." Damon claps slowly, bowing his head slightly.

I frown. "I _was_ sick."

"I remember—I was the one who held your hair back. It wasn't exactly how I wanted to spend my morning."

"You got me a ponytail holder, which didn't even help, by the way. My hair is still too short to stay pulled back."

"So ungrateful…" he mumbles, taking my bag out of my hands. "Please tell me you don't have that fucking calculus book in here. I hate that thing. It's an instrument of torture. It hurts my shoulder!"

"You poor thing, do you want me to kiss it and make it better?"

He regards me with mock horror. "Bonnie—that's inappropriate. I know I'm God's gift to humanity, but you have to tone it down. My virtue is very important to me—kissing leads to… _sex!"_

"Very funny, Damon if you're in that much pain, I can carry my own stuff—I never asked you to do it for me anyway."

"Let's keep that bit of information between us. Saint Stefan thinks I have _morals."_

"Oh no! God forbid someone thinks you're a good person!"

He walks over to the door, pulling it open. "I _knew_ you'd understand. That's why you're the greatest BFF ever— _you get me."_

"Sadly." I say with a roll of my eyes, though I'm not so sure that's a bad thing.

"You love it," he argues.

"You'll never get me to admit it," I tell him, setting my English notebook and folder back on the large, mahogany table. My homework on literary devices isn't due until tomorrow, and I've come to realize that carrying things I don't actually need is a backache waiting to happen.

"Challenge accepted."

* * *

When I enter the hallway, it is already crowded. I slip into the throngs of students, effectively disappearing. Having a secret as monumental as this makes me paranoid. I'm constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Elena to decide she wants revenge. The intimate details of my life could be broadcasted over the intercom and it'll be game-over.

I'm sure speculating as often as I am isn't healthy—for myself or the other parties involved. I can't stop it, though. It just _happens_ and before I know it, I'm stuck in a loop of horrible scenarios.

I can feel myself sliding back into them as I follow the foot-traffic to the cafeteria. When the crowd thins out, I see Care and Damon bickering off to the side.

_Nope. Turning around._

I love how amazing Caroline has been, and she's even tolerating Damon better (though I never thought I'd be on the other side of _that_ argument). Of course, that's only because she'd do anything for me and her future niece or nephew.

She's really taken to the idea of being "Aunt Care" and if she knew I wasn't so confused and undecided, she would have dragged me shopping for all manner of things baby related.

Occasionally, when my brain has run out of potential disasters, I drift into thoughts of Caroline acting like the best aunt ever, of me excelling at parenthood while taking classes on anthropology, spending time with Damon. You know, having a family that acts like one.

And then, somehow it ends up turning into a montage of past memories. Just of Damon and I, of how _much fun we've had_. I am partial to that line of thought.

The way his scoffing could turn into chuckling which often led to full-on laughter. The kind that leaves us out of breath and with aching ribs. How he can turn an argument into a bout of fun teasing, making me forget what we were bickering about in the first place.

That's not good… I'm scared of where I might end up if I allow myself to get carried away with this picture-perfect daydream. I am already fiercely discounting the way my heartbeat speeds up whenever Damon is around.

If I fall into the trap of regarding the older Salvatore brother as anything other then a friend, a cohort, then Elena might never let go of her anger.

They see me, though.

Whatever they're talking about is dropped, and they both walk in my direction.

_God, I hope they don't resume the bitching when they catch up to me._

I accept my fate rather graciously. When they stand in front of me, I offer a grin and a wave.

"You guys didn't have to backtrack; I would have met up with you by now."

"Yeah, whatever you say, Bennett. You can lie to yourself, but you can't lie to us."

"What he said!" Caroline chimes in, jabbing a thumb Damon's way. "The king of the douchebags was telling me your back hurt and that you can’t keep anything down!"

I glare at him, but he returns it with an arrogant smile.

_Okay, he's not lying, but still… the worry police needs to calm down._

Damon immediately takes my bag and the three of us walk side-by-side-by-side. It is extremely weird that Elena isn't part of my circle of friends. She _should_ be right next to me. While I don't miss her constant theatrics, a large part of me longs to have her in my life. We've been nearly inseparable—all three of us—since age three. And now… it's like those thirteen years of sleepovers, games, and unyielding support don't matter.

Thankfully, Care has shut off her overprotective mode. Once she knows I'm okay, she relaxes and launches into a detailed description of some art project she saw on Pinterest

"I saw this cute craft online—it's a picture frame with your sonogram in the middle, surrounded by a bunch of little baby accessories."

"That sounds awesome Care, but where would I hang it?"

"On your wall! _Duh!_ " She says, as if I'm being obtuse.

"Yeah, but why would we _want_ to? That's your dumbest idea yet, Blondie."

There is that lump again. "I can't exactly hang it in my house, Care. You're the only one I told about anything involving my… condition. And besides, I'm not so sure I can be a mom…"

_"Bonnie!"_

"I was going to tell my parents this weekend," I lie.

"No, she's not," Damon shoots down my excuse before I can say anything else. "We have no clue what we're doing, and Prissy Pants here doesn't want anyone to know she doesn't have an answer for everything."

"Okay, then, what solutions have you come up with lately? Should we go back to Planned Parenthood and ask for a redo?"

" _No,"_ he says and there's definitely a hint of pain in his voice. "But we can't hide forever. _Someone's_ going to figure it out. Sure, it probably won't be until six months from now, but it'll click eventually. And I would really like to have a plan before I sign on the dotted line and put at least three states between me and the crypt keeper who calls himself my dad."

"Damon's… right." Care flinches as if she's been pinched.

"See? Blondie's not acting like a blonde!" Damon throws his hands in the air. "She's also saying you should be more like me, Bon Bon, and not give a fuck about what other people think."

The fact that Damon is being more sensible than me really speaks volumes about my state of mind.

I sigh dejectedly. "You have a good point. For once… I'm sorry."

"It's okay," he says glibly. "You're the only one who has trouble acknowledging my genius. You’re too blinded by my good looks."

"Oh, I'm sure Rebekah would _love_ to hear you say that."

" _Oh, I'm sure Rebekah would love to hear you say that."_ he mocks in a poor imitation of my voice.

We sound like a bunch of five-year old kids.

"Someone's still jealous…"

I huff indignantly. "I could care less about Rebekah. Sorry, I like you so much that I don't want your girlfriend to be mad at you anymore."

"Bonnie loves me, Caroline. She _loves_ me," he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. "Isn't it adorable?"

"You suck,' I grumble, turning away.

"So, do you."

I stick my tongue out at him. I know a verbal response will only encourage him.

But the girl standing next to me has clearly grown tired of our antics. She's probably still stuck on my "denial," as she calls it. She doesn't speak, but I don't have to hear her complaints because I can _see_ them.

Caroline is giving me a disapproving stare—like she has caught me with my hand in a cookie jar. I'm not used to this kind of reaction from her. It makes me feel guilty and I'd do just about anything to change the subject.

So, I go with an ever so reliable retort. If I can keep him going, we can't circle back to Care's gripes.

"Is that the best you can come up with?" I say tauntingly.

I can tell that Damon has a witty response all ready to go, but a long arm snakes around his waist before he can respond.

"There you are! I've been looking for you everywhere." Rebekah's manicured hand finds Damon's and grips it tightly, like he will float away if she releases him.

"Well, I'm right here, where I am every single day before lunch." He doesn't appear flattered that the pretty blonde has sought him out. I can't say I blame him. I wouldn't want to be caught in Rebekah's crosshairs. She likes to torment her prey before she goes in for the kill. Although, I'm sure that is more than okay in Salvatore's eyes—for obvious reasons.

Her eyes land on the messenger bag draped over her boyfriend's arm. "I don't know why Bonnie needs an escort to the cafeteria." She gives me a once-over, a disgusted look crossing her face when she meets my gaze. "She should probably lay off the burgers and fries. Maybe then she could fit into regular clothes."

I look down at my giant Harvard sweatshirt. It looks like a dress on my small frame. My hands are just barely peeking out of the sleeves and the hem hits my knees. And yet, I'm acutely aware of how tight it feels around my middle.

I feel a flash of anger. "You know—"

"Hey… how about we eat lunch outside today?" Damon suggests in an attempt to diffuse the situation.

"It's freezing outside."

Damon shrugs his coat off of his shoulders and places it over Rebekah. "Now you won't be cold. Come on, I'll buy you a cookie."

A devious glint twinkles in her eyes, lips pursed tightly, and nose turned up. "Sounds like fun. I love it when _my boyfriend_ wants a romantic lunch date with me."

Damon tosses my bag to Care and steers his girlfriend toward the courtyard before any more words can be exchanged.

I lean against a set of lockers, sliding downward, hands covering my face.

"You're so _not_ fat," Caroline assures me.

I look at her skeptically. We both know I've gained noticeable weight—just not from over-eating like Rebekah implied. She offers me her hand, which I need to take if I want to get off of the filthy school floor. Whoever decided on the pale blue/white tile scheme seriously underestimated the sloppiness of teenagers.

"Thanks, Care." I say ruefully.

"No prob!" She answers. "God, she is such a bitch!"

"Among other things." I mutter.

"You got that right."

As we pass the windows facing the outdoor lunch pavilion, my eyes automatically land on Damon. He's sitting on the bench, an untouched slice of pizza on the tray in front of him. It's a gorgeous day, despite the chill in the air, and the way the sun hits him makes him that much more attractive, his blue eyes even more entrancing than usual. Rebekah, of course, has wrapped herself around his torso, pressing her lips to his in a disgusting display of affection.

It makes me sick.

I realize, though, that while I need his support, my focus should not be solely on who Damon lets in his bed. Someone else is more important than me, him, or our feelings toward each other. We are going to have to man up soon. Whether that means accepting the roles of mom and dad or finding a couple that will, I can only hope that Damon is motivated for reasons that aren't me.

 _That_ is what truly matters.


	18. In Your Dreams

* * *

**~Chapter Sixteen~**

* * *

_There's no plan  
There's no race to be run  
The harder the pain, honey, the sweeter the song_

_~Hozier, No Plan~_

* * *

"Damon, why do you have to ruin a completely innocent activity with your gross commentary?"

"Come on, you can't honestly tell me that cloud doesn't look like a penis!"

"I can. It's easy. Listen: _that cloud doesn't resemble anything phallic."_

I should have known that Damon would only last ten minutes before he tried to needle me. Though, to his credit, that was five minutes longer than my original estimate. Hoping for more was presumptuous of me.

I roll onto my side, propping my head up with my hand. Damon's lying on his back, hands laced behind his head, shirt riding up ever so slightly. He is studying the sky more carefully now, eyes narrowed in concentration.

"Okay… it's a rocket ship. A pitiful one, but I guess it could still qualify. There's a reason The Enterprise wasn't designed to look like that."

"Creative license?" I supply, hoping for a more in-depth description of all things sci-fi, but I doubt it'll go that way. Damon is very secretive about his love for the genre. He doesn't want anyone else to know he's a Trekkie.

Something about not wanting to ruin his reputation.

I stumbled onto this bit of information by accident. It was particularly cold in his house one afternoon, so he said I could raid his closet for a sweatshirt.

I came back with a red flannel and a storage bin containing all three seasons of the original series and _Next Generation_ on DVD. Oh, and the movies starring Chris Pine.

I've been made to take a vow of silence—no talk of his guilty pleasure outside the walls of his home or mine. So, suffice to say, I'm surprised at the reference.

"No, dick jokes. I thought I made that obvious, Bennett. Learn to keep up."

I snort derisively. "I'm sorry all I know about Star Trek is the whole _live long and prosper_ thing. I'm not fluent in alien."

"Vulcan," he clarifies, rolling his eyes. "Spock is a Vulcan—you need to be more specific."

"Fine, I can't speak _Vulcan._ You can untwist your panties now."

"What if I don't want to?" he asks, turning his head so I have an unobstructed view of his pout.

"It's your wedgie; do what you want with it."

We both fall quiet as a breeze picks up. The few leaves that have survived the cooler weather rustle and some finally give out, floating to the grass below. Several leaves already on the ground are blown across the open field opposite the walking trail I travelled with Enzo.

I sit up and zip his leather jacket all the way.

Damon follows my lead, though I had been expecting him to make some flippant remark about how I should get my own outwear (which we both know I have hanging in the back of my closet), but there's something about Damon's… the way I swim in it, the feel of the leather against my skin, it's warmth, the fact that it smells just like him.

How he's become so used to my "forgetfulness" that the first thing he does when we step outside is to hand the garment to me, smirk in place, shaking his head. Always lamenting about how I'm slipping up.

I wasn't happy when he insinuated, in the middle of the science room, that he thought I had pregnancy brain. Granted, we were the only ones in there, but the door was ajar. Anyone could have overheard our bickering as they walked by.

Now, it's an unspoken joke between us and it's kind of endearing.

"You liked the movie," he reminds me.

"No, I liked Chris Pine's eyes," and _not_ because they resemble a certain lovable asshole's pale blue irises.

He cracks a wistful smile. "I didn't like them at first, but my mother and Aunt Ruthie got together and watched the whole thing from beginning to end. After Mom died, Ruthie would come over with Mehri and we'd sit on the couch—Stef and I—making jokes about it, but then it got interesting… well, it did to me. Steffy swears on his giant, broody forehead that he doesn't like _Star Trek._ And after a while, I started thinking I could share it with one of my kids—I mean, Stefan's future gremlins. I didn't really think I'd settle down. Too much moving around in the military."

"Well, you kind of screwed that plan up." But I don't know if I really believe that.

"My after high school one or the one about the gremlins?"

I play with a loose thread hanging from the old blanket we spread out on the grass. "The gremlins… maybe. It's not like I know what to do about _it_ , but sometimes I wonder if we could…"

"Keep it?" Damon raises an eyebrow questioningly. "I considered it when you found my DVD collection."

"Really?"

"For a second, but… I could end up on the other side of the country… it's not an ideal situation to be in."

I nod solemnly. "No, but… does that make it impossible?"

"Not _impossible._ Dumb, difficult, and selfish maybe, but not impossible."

"I kind of want to," I admit, my voice a whisper. Part of me hopes he doesn't hear what I said. That he'll stare at me in confusion and I'll be able to take it back.

The way the sunlight hits his face is mesmerizing. I am trapped in his gaze. I try to avert my eyes, so I don't have to wonder why his jaw is set, his expression pensive, what is making him so emotional.

Because he's probably thinking of ways he can let me down gently.

And then, in the same quiet volume, "me, too, Bon Bon. But I don't know if I can."

He's absolutely right. Logically, I can recite the list of reasons to not do this, to give up the daydream and let someone else binge-watch TV shows with a blue-eyed toddler, but… for every no, my heart comes up with a yes.

And it's pretty hard to be realistic when you get carried away with the potential of a dream.

"We can think about it, though. It is _our_ choice," I say desperately.

"Spoken like a true rebel," Damon echoes. "Yeah, we don't _have_ to do anything yet. We can still consider our options."

"Exactly," I chirp, a little too forcefully.

"I like having options," he goes on, rolling with his idea. "I'm good with options."

The sky is tinged with pink and orange streaks now, the sun dipping behind the line of trees, streaming through the cracks in the branches. It's also noticeably colder and when I see Damon shiver, I begin to take my oversized out layer off.

He stops me, fingers curling around my wrist. "Wear it, Bennett. Your incubating the future president of the _Star T_ rek fan club. That's a huge responsibility."

"And if said future president isn't in our care?" My hand finds the zipper and pulls it up again.

"He or she will just love it without knowing why." He shrugs as if the answer should be obvious.

"I'm not sure that's how interests are formed," I reply in a skeptical tone.

"Well, then we have some options to weigh, don't we?" he stands, offering me his hand. He lifts me up without much effort—an impressive feat considering I've gained a few pounds recently.

"That we do," I agree, brushing invisible dirt from my jeans.

He picks up the lime green throw Grams gave me for my fifth birthday and folds it in a neat square. "We can discuss things over onion rings," he says suggestively.

My stomach signals its need for food with an odd-sounding gurgle. "Damon, that's a brilliant idea."

"You can say that again."

"Very funny," My sarcasm is blatant.

"No, really," he insists with an innocence that has to be faked. "Say it again."

"In your dreams, Damon."

* * *

Talking through our problems like adults is much easier said than done when the "adults" in question are Bonnie Bennett and Damon Salvatore.

We started out by constructing a pros and cons list, papers pushed to the corner of the booth so we could make room for our order of onion rings and milkshakes.

Our discussion devolved into a race to see who could blow bits of their straw wrapper across the table the fastest when the bad bullet points began to outnumber the good.

"I say we revise the rules. You have an unfair advantage!"

"How can someone have an advantage in a completely pointless, made-up game with arbitrary parameters?" Damon questions, eyebrows raised in amusement.

"Simple—you have more lung capacity."

"You _have_ to be joking," he replies flatly.

"Nope."

He rolls his eyes so far that back that I'm shocked they don't get stuck there. "You're the baby; not me. Ever heard of losing gracefully?"

"I- I am _not_ a baby!" I sputter.

"Are, too."

"Am not!" I insist rather pathetically.

The triumphant look on Damon's face tells me I proved his point. I shift away from him, and slide my glass over, creating minimal but clear distance between us.

"Bonzo, don't be mad—I'll still buy an extra order of onion rings."

"Humph," I grumble, scooting back to my original spot. "I'm disappointed you think you can buy my happiness with fried food."

"Can't I?"

"Well… _yeah,_ but you're not supposed to be obvious about it."

"My bad," he says in a way that makes me think he is going to continue doing what I tell him not to do.

The bell hanging on the door chimes and I look over to the entrance, the idea being it will distract Damon from his current teasing.

In walks a girl who looks to be our age, maybe a year or two older. And, by the looks of her profile, she's pretty. She has long, jet black hair, tied back in a braided bun. When she makes her way over to the dining area, I realize that she's far more beautiful than I first thought.

She's tall and slim, willowy, with tanned skin and warm brown eyes that remind me of Elena's. Her style is actually very similar to hers, too. Simple. Minimal make-up and a casual long-sleeved shirt, jeans, and gray sneakers. There is a small stud in her left nostril and several gold-and-red bangles on her wrist, which gives her an edge that Elena doesn't possess.

She senses me watching her and turns her head. And her face lights up like a Christmas tree.

For a split second, I think it's me she's happy to see. However, that would be absurd because I've never seen her before in my life.

And then she's in front of me, propping herself up on the blue vinyl seating directly behind Damon.

"Damon!" she squeals, wrapping her arms around his neck.

I'm scrambling to collect our papers as he groans, an action that is undoubtedly accompanied by that trademark eye-roll he's always giving me. I fold the lists in half and stick them underneath my half full milkshake glass.

"Mehri. I'd say it's nice to see you, but I can't actually see you."

She releases him and stands next to our table. "There. Now, since you can see me—" she punctuates her statement with a smirk. "You can introduce me to your girlfriend."

"Don't you have somewhere else to be… college, maybe?"

"I just finished an accelerated course, smart-ass." She puts her focus on me, completely shrugging off Damon's jibe. Then, she thrusts her arm in my direction. "Since Damon forgot what manners are—I'm Mehri. His cousin."

I find myself letting go of a breath I didn't know I was holding, taking her hand and shaking it. "I'm Bonnie. Nice to meet you! You're Milly's granddaughter?"

"Yup," says Mehri, smiling with pride. "She's amazing, isn't she?"

"Spectacular," I agree.

She nods, and then her brows knit together, and she studies me with a puzzled expression, as if something doesn't quite add up. "Wait… your name is Bonnie? Stef told me your name was Rebekah."

"Oh… I'm not really his girlfriend," I explain sheepishly, tucking a curl awkwardly behind my ear. "We're just friends, good friends."

Damon jumps in before his cousin can respond. "She means _best_ friends. And you thought I couldn't find someone willing to put up with my bullshit."

"I'm _not_ willing to put up with your bullshit," I shoot him a dirty look. " _Someone's_ got to check you on it."

"You must be an angel," Mehri quips.

"Anyway, I knew you and Stefan had an anti-Damon text thread."

"It's not an anti-Damon text thread. He's just better at keeping in touch. And we were planning a double-date. Me and my new boyfriend, Greg, and Stefan and Elena."

"You didn't want to me to come?"

"Well, Stef said you had a lot on your plate right now. And he mentioned that you and Rebekah were more like friends with benefits… but then I saw you and Bonnie… and I thought maybe he didn't see you guys acting like… well, you get my point." She looks at me apologetically.

"No, Stefan's description was accurate," he admits, though he does his best to not let it bother him. "She and I aren't really…"

"Compatible," I fill in for him.

She nods like she gets it, but, judging by the funny look she pins on him, I'm not so she does.

"Do you want to sit?" I ask, sliding the pros and cons list out of its hiding place, casually slipping them into my bag.

"Thank you, Bonnie! I'd love to!" she beams at me.

I make space for her and she sits. I can tell most of her personality comes from her grandmother, with the way she teases Damon, but is never mean-spirited about it. She clearly loves him dearly, thinks the world of him… and for that alone, I am glad he has her.

"So, what are you guys working on?" she eyes my hand, which is resting inside my bag, still gripping the pages.

"Nothing!" I sound horribly guilty, though, and it's embarrassing.

Damon gives me a pointed glare. "She's showing me the rough draft of her erotic _Twilight_ fanfiction—based on _Brokeback Mountain."_

"It's not anything like that," I say, "it's Damon's essay on the War of 1812. He thought it only lasted a year."

Mehri giggles. "Hey… I have an idea! Why don't you bring Bonnie with you to our double date? You two are really cute together—and funny, too. I'm sure Stef and Elena wouldn't mind. Greg would love to meet both of my favorite cousins! The way grandma tells stories about us playing together so often, he feels like he already knows you."

Damon doesn't seem to be psyched about the prospect of a miniature family reunion and I can't blame him. I don't think Elena will be all that happy for us to be lumped together as a pair, and I really don't want to create a bigger rift between us.

But she's staring at us so hopefully… I feel a pang when I think of how long it's been since Elena's been avoiding me… maybe this could help us mend our friendship… I can't see her acting anything but civil in such a public setting.

I chew on my bottom lip as Damon contemplates her suggestion.

"Please, Damon? I've really missed you guys."

"Fine, but if it gets all sentimental, Bon Bon and I are out. And you admit that I was right about it being a terrible idea."

"Deal," she says firmly. She doesn't sound nervous, though. I kind of feel bad—the level of confidence she has in this going smoothly is way too high. But it's not like she knows that we aren't on speaking terms with Stefan's longtime love, and even if she did, it still doesn't explain the _why._

My stomach growls, breaking into the competitive air surrounding us. I grab an onion ring from the basket sitting in the middle of the table.

"I'm going to go ask Frank for another order," she declares.

Damon takes a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet. "Get two. Those things are like crack to her." He jerks his head in my direction.

"You got it," Mehri grabs the money from his outstretched hand.

Frank Vogel is the man who runs the kitchen in Nell's Diner, and currently, he's my all-time favorite person. I've eaten so many helpings of onion rings that whenever Damon comes in by himself, Frank has a takeout box full of them that he makes Damon take back to me.

Of course, the lingering smell of oil and grease sometimes makes me queasy—like now, for example—but I'm able to keep it mostly at bay.

I don't want to ruin a good thing by puking after eating several baskets full of my favorite food.

I intend on living on them for the foreseeable future.

"Are you going to barf?" Damon asks. "Because I can't follow you into the bathroom to hold your hair back."

"No, I'm not—I hope." I shove another one in my mouth.

"Maybe you should—just to be on the safe side. You're looking pretty green and I really don't want my leather seats to be in the line of fire."

"Good looking out," I mutter.

"My poor baby can't take that kind of trauma," he reiterates.

"Yeah… the car is your baby. _That's_ reassuring."

"You _can_ have multiple babies, Bennett. I figured that out when my mom and dad stopped paying attention to me and started showering a loud thing wrapped in a blanket with love that was clearly supposed to be mine."

"Damon, you were _two_ —if that, when Stef was born."

"And? What's the point?"

"The poin _t is_ your brain can't recall what happened that long ago with any reliability."

"Whatever—do you really want to go out to dinner with a walking group of horny couples?"

I sigh. "Yes and no, but—"

"I get it," he says, holding his hand up. "We'll go, pretend that we didn't fuck our lives up, eat, and go home to watch _The Bodyguard."_

I perk up a bit. "Really? I thought you were tired of it."

"Eh, it's not so bad. It grew on me—like a fungus—but the result is the same."

"You know, I'm beginning to think you're not as much of an asshole as you make yourself out to be."

"Good—put that on our list of pros."

The butterflies resting in my stomach begin to fly around. The sensation of hope and/or joy is so strong that tears begin to form in my eyes.

None of them fall, however, because Mehri is walking back over, a basket in each hand. I nearly jump out of my seat to help her carry them to the table. Man, maybe Damon isn't over-exaggerating my love for fried food. He knows me way better than I'm willing to give him credit for.

I consider telling him this later on, when we are alone once again, but then I realize such a statement would be unnecessary.

Mehri had already vocalized it, after all.


	19. Motherhood

* * *

**~Chapter Seventeen~**

* * *

_And then as the sail is hoist  
You find your eyes are growing moist  
All the fears never voiced say you have to make your final choice_

_~Pink Floyd, Childhood's End~_

* * *

I'm starting to look different.

My face is a little fuller, the weight I've gained is definitely noticeable, and it's becoming more and more difficult to button my jeans.

It's starting to cause whispers.

Some stories floating around the halls at school are scarily accurate. I'm not sure who said it first, but the person who said that I am pregnant is right. It just starts to fall apart when they speculate on who's baby it is or how it happened in the first place.

I've heard that it's Damon's, that he is cheating on Rebekah with me. And that I'm not sure who knocked me up, that the choices are between Damon and Enzo.

The amateur detectives actually have some logical theories. Everyone is leaning toward the second scenario, at least that's what Caroline says (people keep asking her to verify, just as they had about the previous rumor). They think that's why Enzo and Damon fought and why Elena wants nothing to do with me.

It's not exactly the truth, but it's closer to it than the normal caliber of theories about any scandal that's ever graced my ears.

That doesn't bode well for me, but I guess it's the most interesting gossip my classmates have heard since last year, which shouldn't say much because we've only been in school for a few months. Though something tells me that nothing will top this story

I feel like I'm a sideshow attraction because of it. For the past ten minutes, everyone who has walked by my table in the cafeteria has been staring at me. Two freshman who I saw at the cheer-formation meeting held by Care and Elena kept their eyes trained on my stomach before sitting at the table adjacent to mine.

And that's one of the more polite ways people have checked to see if the rumors held any water.

Part of it is my fault; I should have known better than to come in here. It's meatloaf day, and while that used to be one of the more palatable menu options, the smell is now killing me—slowly, in a way that can't be stopped by breathing through my mouth.

But going to the courtyard is even more annoying, believe it or not. I'll be able to eat without fear of being caught gagging every other bite and I'm able to read a book or look over my notes. Sounds better, right?

_Wrong._

I'm a sitting duck outside. People are able to spot me with ease because no one really comes outside when the temperature begins to drop, when the trees are almost naked, and the colorful leaves have withered up in huge piles on the grass. Raked, but not removed from the area.

That makes my peers more brazen.

They will venture outside to see if they'll be able to get the scoop; so they can dangle the information in everyone's face, hoping to gain favor with the popular kids—if you think there can even be popular kids in a town as tiny as Mystic Falls, where ninety-five percent of our population has known each other for longer than most of us have been alive.

And it's stupid.

Because most of us know what our classmates are all about. But, somehow, that only makes people like Rebekah and Klaus more sought after—because we all know they have money and they are considered "exotic" for not _actually_ living within the town's limits. It's what makes Damon everyone's wet dream—his good looks and general disregard for anyone but himself makes him so different from every other boy we've grown up with. He's not like Matt—the stereotypical good guy you'd expect to find living here.

He's an anomaly.

And, according to most girls, the human embodiment of a god.

Hence his very aptly named God complex.

If a stranger walked in the building, they would know the social hierarchy by simply watching the interactions happening during lunch for five minutes.

And they'd also know that the girl who's a shoo-in for being voted _Most Likely to Succeed_ in the yearbook is knocked up and no longer fits the category.

"Guess what I did?"

I glance up from my reading assignment to see Damon standing in front of me, bright blue eyes sparkling like they always do when he gets something he wants. Happy with a tinge of pompousness. _Everything_ about him screams of inflated self-worth, the kind that reinforces the thought that he will never _not_ get what he wants.

"Should I be scared? Because I'm scared."

He pretends to consider it. "As much as you know I'd like to tell you yes, I'm going to say that's a hard no. I think you'll be proud."

"Still scared."

"You suck. Here I am about to pour my soul out to you, hoping for your approval and _this_ is how you treat me?"

I give him a pointed look. "I've found that with you _a hard no_ could mean many different things."

"Yeah, but they're usually _good_ things."

"Okay, fine, I guess I walked into that one." I hold my hands up in concession. "Just tell me what you did."

"I took some advice a good friend of mine gave me recently." He lifts his eyebrows as if to say, _I told you so._

"And what did this friend tell you to do?" I'm a little on edge. This could go many different ways.

"She told me to stop hanging around this girl because someone's feelings would get hurt."

"Wise friend you have," I comment nonchalantly.

Damon shakes his head. "Not really. Usually she just keeps talking to me about being a good person until I lie and say she's right. If I didn't, I don't think she'd ever shut up."

"Maybe she's just thorough. Maybe she just wants to make sure you understand what she's saying."

"She is thorough—in more ways than one."

I wish my legs were long enough to kick him from my spot on the bench. "Spit it out, Damon."

"There you go again… bossing me around. Do you ever get tired of nagging me?"

I raise an eyebrow.

"Right—that's a no. I knew that. Anyway, I escaped the threat of holy matrimony, which is a lot like death by crazy psycho bitch."

"Okay… and?"

"Ugh—can't you just let me tell the story? You're no fun!"

"Fine. Go on."

" _Thank you,"_ he says with a heavy sigh. "So, this psycho bitch tried to tell me I couldn't do something that I _clearly_ didn't need permission for. I mean, what the fuck? She's fucking delusional if she thinks she can tell me what to do. Anyway, I dumped her. Which means I can spend more time with my BFF. I'm thinking ice cream and a re-watch of _The Bodyguard._ Are you game?"

"Duh," I say lightheartedly. "Are we going to my place after the appointment or yours?"

"Do you have the ice cream with the brownie chunks in it?"

"I haven't touched it since you put it in the freezer the other day," I promise.

"Your place," he replies, not missing a beat.

I nod thoughtfully. And then I think about the aforementioned appointment. I have another ultrasound scheduled for this afternoon. It's an important one, too. If everything looks good, we should be able to find out if the blob-like creature I'm sharing my insides with is male or female.

I try to keep things as technical as possible—if I don't then I start spiraling into this cycle of what I can only describe as acceptance vs. denial and that's how I ended up on the phone with Damon, who tried his hardest to coax me out of my existential crisis even though it was two-thirty on a Tuesday morning.

"What do you think about that, by the way?"

" _The Bodyguard?"_ he plays dumb. _"_ I can't believe I let you talk me into watching it more than once—"

"The appointment," I interrupt. "Not that you didn't know what I meant."

Damon shrugs. "I think it'll be informative."

"That's it?" He has to know we are teetering on the edge of having to _do something. Anything_ to keep us from free falling into disaster. Yes, we know what we _want,_ but now we're going to have to put in the work needed to achieve that.

"I think that this whole thing is crazy, Bonnie. I think it's risky and dumb and there's a huge chance that we'll end up making an even bigger mess than before. But I _know_ some things, too. I know that there's no going back now. I know that you are one of the smartest people in this hell hole. I know that even though we didn't always like each other, I always respected you. And, most importantly, I know that if I have to be stuck with someone for over a decade, I'm glad it's you."

"I'm glad I'm stuck with you, too," I say quietly. I'm still processing what he said. Somehow, hearing all my thoughts coming from Damon, makes me feel better.

Like it will be okay, even with the odds stacked against us.

Statistically speaking, this is bullshit. But Damon is staring at me so earnestly, how can I doubt him? He didn't offer any solutions, not really, but he _wants to_ and that's what I need right now.

Motivation.

He doesn't say anything back. We sit in complete silence. I study him carefully, confused as to how I could have been so right about him and so wrong at the same time. Now, I see him differently. And I know what that difference means, it makes my toes curl and stomach flip. I smile, I don't really want to, but I can't help it.

"Are you okay, Bennett?"

"Why do you ask?"

"You look like you're on some bad acid trip."

"I just like you—and well, I always told myself if that happened, then I would probably self-destruct."

His eyes wander from the top of my head to where my body becomes obstructed by the table. "You're still in one piece."

"I know. I'm in shock."

He shakes his head. Chuckles. "You are so weird sometimes, Bonster."

"I'm sorry you feel that way." I snip defensively.

Another laugh. "Don't be," he stands up and walks over to me. "I like it."

I freeze when I feel his lips on me cheek. Damon does, too. Clearly he forgot that he isn't trying to get back in Elena's good graces. That I'm Bonnie and gestures like this are reserved for turning my best friend into a babbling, flustered mess.

And then he remembers.

Just like that, he straightens up and nudges me on the arm. "Meet me by my car when the bell rings."

"Uh, yeah. That's the plan."

"Right."

He walks away.

* * *

My last class of the day is history, taught by everyone's favorite teacher: Alaric Saltzman.

He's young—twenty-four tops—and has only been teaching in our school for just over a year. Caroline had been so enamored by him in eleventh grade that she was the first person in our class to sign up for a meeting with the guidance counselor.

We have a quiz.

It's short, simple, and takes me twenty minutes to finish. It's mostly fill-in-the-blank and multiple-choice questions, with lines of text taken straight from the textbook.

I remain at my desk for a minute after I put my pencil down. A quick glance around the room shows me that everyone else is still working, but I know that won't be for long.

This assignment is basically a free A with the weight of a test score attached to it. Something to boost the entire class's average. It's also an opportunity for Mr. Saltzman to dismiss the class early, allowing us to go to the library or the courtyard until the final bell rang.

Damon and I need to be off school grounds before then. The last thing we need is to give anyone more reason to talk about us spending so much time together.

So, paper in hand, I approach Mr. Saltzman's desk.

"Here you go," I say cheerily, placing my work inside the designated basket. "Have a good night, Mr. Salzman! I'll see you tomorrow."

I can only take one step forward before he stops me. "Bonnie?"

 _Crap! So close…_ "Yes?"

"Can I speak with you a moment?"

I look from him to the rows of desks on my left. Some people are starting to finish, their pencils hitting their desks much louder than necessary. Others are trying to sneakily use their phones, lit screens glowing in the shadows under desktops.

"Of course, what do you need?" I don't meet his eyes. Instead, I look at the posters hanging above the whiteboard, right next to a pad of chart paper. Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther King Jr,. Susan B Anthony, the Washington Monument…

"Follow me," he stands and heads for the door.

My head is down as I exit the room. I'm sure this will fan the flames somehow, in some horrifying manner, and before I can stop myself, I think of all the things that could be said about me tomorrow morning.

_Maybe Bonnie is in trouble for cutting class to make out with Damon, maybe she's flunking history, maybe Mr. Saltzman is sleeping with her._

I hold my books closer to my chest, focusing on the double doors located at the end of the corridor. I hear the door close with a faint _click._ His gaze doesn't leave me to check on the class through the window. I really wish it would, as I have no idea what he could possibly want to discuss with me.

"Don't worry—it's nothing bad, Actually, I think it's _good."_

Well, I can't say that I don't want to hear some good news for a change. "Alright… what is it?"

"Every new teacher is required to be in charge of a club," he explains. "Or a department—really, anything that might require a leader. And, as you can probably guess, nobody is all that interested in joining a history club… and, well, Miss Fell has the head of the history department on lockdown."

"Isn't she an English teacher?"

"Yes—I voiced the same concern, but apparently those titles are first come, first serve." Alaric does nothing to conceal the agitation in his voice.

I shift my weight from side-to-side, hoping to relieve the aching in my feet and lower back. "No offense, Mr. Saltzman but how do I fit into this?"

"I want you to help me organize a history night at your mother's museum."

"Um, my mom's museum isn't a history museum—it's science."

"That's even better!" he exclaims. "It'll be a cross-curriculum night! The district loves when you can show that you can teach across multiple subject areas."

"I guess, but there's a brand-new exhibit so everything is geared toward that." And I don't want to plan a meeting—especially not one that would encourage my parents to feign interest in my schoolwork. One that will make it look like I'm all for science being the basis of every academic area.

" _Oh Bonnie," they'll say. "You're so into biophysics that you're bringing science to all the subjects! Great idea!"_

But I make the mistake of looking at Mr. Saltzman. He looks so hopeful, eyes begging for me to tell him yes.

And I do.

I don't even realize I'm doing it. I only know because my teacher is now beaming at me, hand on the doorknob, ready to dismiss me for the day.

At least this conversation is almost over.

"Thank you, Bonnie! This will be a great addition to your recommendation letter. Yale loves this sort of thing!"

 _Yeah, because Yale is my primary concern right now._ "You're welcome."

Of course, Mr. Saltzman doesn't know that I have bigger issues to take care of, but that doesn't mean I don't feel as though I've wasted valuable time agreeing to do something I know I shouldn't have.

_~~X~~_

I hurry down the hall, nearly dropping my books onto the floor as I push the door open. The sun shines brightly in the sky, a clear, cloudless fall day. A good omen in my grandmother's opinion.

I rush down the steps, past the courtyard, and over to where Damon parked his car. He's already there, but his back is turned toward the football field, away from me. He's watching something, but I don't know what.

Nobody is out here with us. Not a student or a teacher or a visitor. The only living creatures in our vicinity are the squirrels gathering nuts and the birds chirping overhead as they fly south.

I go over and stand by his side. "You okay? You look like you wish you were on an acid trip."

"No," he replies softly, introspectively. "Just thinking."

"About what?"

"Schrodinger's box."

"Wow, that's both impressive and deep." I regard him with fake suspicion. "Who are you and where's my best friend?"

" _Ha, ha,_ very funny Bennett."

"Thanks—really, though. What's wrong?"

And then he isn't staring straight ahead anymore.

"Nothing," Damon answers. "I was thinking about us. Sometimes, it's weird to think about how much I hated your guts."

"I thought we already hashed this out."

He lets out a breath. "We did. It's not a bad thing. I was just thinking—last time I checked, free thought wasn't illegal."

"It's not," I agree. I am having a hard time reading Damon. The vibe seems more tense now. The words he speaks don't sound as sure. It doesn't give me a good feeling. "I was just checking on you."

"I'm good."

"You seem good," I remark, a little snide.

If he catches on to undercurrent in my tone, he doesn't show it. He doesn't even respond. The next thing I know, he's in the car, gazing at me through the windshield with an impatient expression.

I get in and he flashes me a small smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "You're definitely slower than me. Admit it."

I sigh, shaking my head. "Fine—this _one_ time you were more efficient than me."

"Not quite what I wanted," he puts the key in the ignition. "But I'll take it."

* * *

We didn't talk much on the ride here. The strangeness between us hasn't dissipated, and I am trying not to read into it too much. The same receptionist from before checks me in, with that same chipper attitude, and upbeat demeanor.

I wish some of it could carry over to Damon, but it only seems to darken his mood further. We walk over to the waiting are, opting to sit across from each other. Instead of the inappropriate commentary on diagrams of the female anatomy I had been expecting, he just slumps back and begins thumbing through something on his phone.

I pick up a magazine and turn through the pages until I stop at an ad for diapers. The woman in the photograph is overjoyed to be holding the baby in her arms. The company touts a product that doesn't leak or come undone, claims to make motherhood easier.

And I wonder if it could really be like that.

I'm jealous of this young mom, who is really only a model, envious of the fact that she can happily embrace her child without worry or judgement.

Irrationally angry that she is allowed to have those moments.

I toss the magazine back onto the table, in search of one that doesn't advertise baby supplies. My fingers curl around a worn copy of _Time_ when I hear my name.

"Bonnie?"

"Yes?"

"You can come on back." The nurse smiles at me and I don't know if I can return it.

I clear my throat to get Damon's attention. He looks up, sees the woman looking at the two of us, and stands up. Wordlessly following us back into an exam room.

I chew on my bottom lip anxiously as I wait for the cold gel that Google told me would come. My eyes are closed, my breathing slow and steady. I don't acknowledge the odd feeling of the equipment moving over my abdomen.

I'm just glad it isn't like the last one.

Gone is the invasive wand. In its place is unbearable need to pee (which has definitely intensified this time around). It's actually worse than the first ultrasound because there is a very real possibility that I might pee all over the table I'm lying on.

The ultrasound technician goes over the various body parts my baby has developed and informs me that everything looks as it should. I open one eye to peek at the picture on the screen. It doesn't quite look like a person yet, but it no longer resembles a deformed jellybean.

It's both awe-inspiring and frightening.

"Would you like to know the sex?"

I prop myself up and nod resolutely, casting a glance at Damon, who echoes my affirmative by nodding stiffly in our direction.

We don't even have to wait a complete second before she tells us. "It's a girl. Congratulations!"

"Thank you," I murmur, and I can feel my eyes beginning to water. "I'm sorry, I don't usually get emotional like this."

The tech smiles warmly at me. "No problem, sweetie. It's normal."

"Not for me," I insist, sitting up and grabbing a tissue from the box on the side table.

Damon isn't crying. I knew that wouldn't happen, but I still can't tell what he's actually thinking. He stares at the image without fear, disappointment, or glee.

It's like he's gone completely numb.

That's not a good sign.

I listen as I'm assured that while it wasn't commonplace before, my emotional responses have changed for a reason and not to worry. Everything looks good thus far. We are both very healthy.

"You and the baby," she clarifies, though I would be stupid to think she was referring to the statue of a man sitting in the chair across from us.

_Me and the baby._

I'm suddenly very overwhelmed by how real that statement has become.


	20. The Martyr

* * *

**~Chapter Eighteen~**

* * *

_Everything is my fault  
I'll take all the blame  
Aqua seafoam shame_

_~Nirvana, All Apologies~_

* * *

Lorenzo St. John hasn't been on my radar for a while. Ever since that huge blow-up fight we had, I've barely seen him. He had been out the following week (probably to avoid being questioned about his Marcia Brady nose) and I've steered clear of him when I heard he was back in school.

He was doing the same thing—until today, that is.

I'm waiting for Caroline to come out of the gym when I see him walking toward me. I spend what feels like hours debating on what to do, but that ends up being a dumb mistake.

Because, when I finally decide to duck inside the doors, he's there. Standing in front of me with a pained expression on his face.

"You need to leave me alone," I say in a low voice.

He holds his hands up, taking half a step back. "I will. I just want to say sorry."

"For?"

Enzo lets out a groan, as if he'd been hoping I wouldn't ask for details. "Well, for starters, pushing you to do something you didn't want."

"I see." I answer curtly. "It's not okay; it probably never will be… what else do you want to say?"

"And the bet with Kai… it's true, but once I got to know you, I forgot about it."

I narrow my eyes. "That's not what it sounded like."

"He was bugging me about it the day we went hiking. I thought it would be romantic if we… anyway, then I thought I could use the extra money to buy you something nice. I never meant to hurt you."

"But you did. I'm nothing more than fifty bucks to you—that's disgusting."

"I don't want you to think that's all I cared about. Really, it's not."

"Okay, thanks for taking the initiative to find me and say all that, I guess." I sound cold, unforgiving.

Enzo looks at me pleadingly. "I mean it! The way Damon would talk about you… he would always go on about what a good person you were. And you'd get him so angry sometimes—it was funny to see him deal with someone who didn't back down from a fight. He admired it so much that I couldn't help but admire you, too."

"Damon hardly admires me," I roll my eyes.

"He might not say he does—but it's true. You should've seen the look he got on his face when you walked by with your friends."

I can't think of a good reason for Enzo to be telling me this. "That's Elena he was looking at. Not me."

"Then why did it happen when you weren't with them?"

"Maybe he was high. I'm not the Damon whisperer—I've got no clue," I shrug his question off.

"And why did he confront me about our fight?" he points to me and then to himself.

"He's a hothead."

He chuckles. "If you really think so."

"I do."

"Okay… well, I'm glad you let me say my piece. I know I don't deserve to be forgiven, but if that changes, I'll be extremely lucky."

It doesn't fix the gaping hole he created in my chest, but he sure makes it sound like it could. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Thanks," he turns to depart, but hesitates, facing me again. There's a hint of curiosity in his eyes. I know what's coming before he even opens his mouth to ask. I brace myself for the onslaught of questions.

"Is it true?" he's inspecting me for some tell-tale sign that will confirm what everyone is alleging.

"Is _what_ true?"

"Did you sleep with Damon? Are you pregnant?"

I get defensive. The aggravation flares up in me much more intensely than I had anticipated. "I didn't cheat on you, Enzo. I promise." I hold his gaze until he nods.

"I didn't think you did."

"I would never," I reiterate. "Don't believe everything you hear."

"I didn't… I really didn't, but that doesn't answer my second question. Are you pregnant? Did Damon—"

"Knock me up with his hell spawn?" I finish for him. "No, he didn't. I'm not pregnant, Enzo. Sorry to disappoint you."

"Oh, I'm not disappointed," he assures me. "Quite the opposite. Thanks for the _brutal_ honesty."

The look of relief never leaves his face as he backs away from me, disappearing behind a group of students carrying instruments to the music room.

I curse at the sinking suspicion he leaves me with. I don't think I've truly seen the last of Enzo.

Caroline emerges from the gym moments later, her Mystic Falls cheer caption hoodie in her hands. It isn't worn out or faded like the one we got in tenth grade, which means the new ones she ordered came in.

She tosses one of the two others she's holding to me. I can't help but feel a little off put. Do I really deserve this if I'm benched? Am I still a cheerleader? Am I a part of the team if my only means of participation are limited to a few, less strenuous routines?

"You're the best flier on the team, Bon," Care says gently, picking up on my sadness far quicker than usual. "It's yours—" she nods toward the sweatshirt. "And you're not going to lose your spot on the squad, but it would make me feel better if you finally started sitting everything out. At least for the time-being."

I frown. That suggestion is abhorrent, but I'd be lying if I said she didn't have a point. I may not be showing enough to confirm the rumors, but my days of pleading the fifth are going by pretty fast.

"I'm not at that point yet."

"Bon…"

"Care, when it's too much for me, I'll stop. Your niece doesn't need a concussion before she's even born."

" _I knew it!"_ she squeals. "It's a girl—and wait… does that mean you're keeping her?"

Her comment bursts my bubble. "I… don't know yet. Nothing is for sure right now. We just know it's a girl…"

This doesn't bring Caroline down any, however. She's ecstatic. "Do you _want_ to? Please tell me you at least know what you want.

 _Well, I certainly_ think _I do._ "I don't know… it's complicated."

"Of course, it is! But that doesn't mean you don't have a preference!"

"I know," I say, lump forming in my throat.

She plants her hands on her hips. "And you'd be a great mom. So, don't worry about that part. Damon… eh, I don't think he's equipped to be a parent, but I don't know him like you do."

"Don't sell him short," I tell her, voice cracking. "He can be nice when he wants."

Caroline's expression softens. She pulls me in for a hug. "Hey, don't be too sad. I have your back, Bon. Sisters 'til the end of time, remember?"

"We really should have come up with a mantra that rhymed. Blood sister ceremonies are supposed to have rhymes," I say lightly.

"We were eleven," she reminds me. "And that would've been cheesy. I told you—we should just get our point across. Simple, clean, and clear. Not mushy. We're forces to be reckoned with."

"I can't believe Elena and I let you be in charge of that…"

"I can," Care argues. "I'm a natural born leader. And we have more important things to discuss."

"Like?" I let go of her, suddenly very suspicious. Caroline really knows how to utilize segues to her advantage. That's why she's so good at procuring gossip—she slides questions and statements into a conversation seamlessly.

"Like how you never told me what Damon looks like naked. Not in detail at least—I need more than good. And how was he? Is he the sex god every girl claims he is?"

I look away in embarrassment. "Care… good is the only way I know how to describe him. And I'm not exactly a sex expert. I _was_ a virgin when we hooked up and I was also drunk."

"You've got to remember _something,_ " she prods. "I told you about when I lost my virginity to Hector Morton in tenth grade!"

"Fine—it hurt and then after a bit, it didn't. From what I remember, I guess it was nice."

"Fair enough," Caroline says, letting the matter drop. "How are you doing?"

"Fine—how was your date with Tyler last night?"

"Oh, Bon," she starts. "It was amazing…" I try to listen intently as she gushes over the restaurant Lockwood chose. "It was great! You know I've been on a sushi kick since my dad and Jackson took us to that cool place in California…"

She goes on to describe the decorations and seating arrangements as I picture her and Elena having a good time on their trip. I feel the familiar sensation of longing when Elena's face pops in my head. If I know how she's doing now, it may be easier for me to patch things up with her at dinner the following evening.

"How is Elena?" I ask cautiously, wishing I could take the words back as soon as see the way she frowns at me.

Care sighs. "She's a little upset with Stef, but I'm sure they'll make up soon. They're both looking forward to seeing Stefan's cousin tomorrow. I tried to give her advice, but I'm not very good at it. Honestly, she could use your words of wisdom… I was afraid to tell you about it."

"What's the problem?" I fall back into my role of problem-solving superhero easily and without hesitation.

"There's a small catch…"

"You can tell me. I can handle it."

"Okay," Care says, her tone laced with uncertainty. "She and Stefan fought over her lack of… empathy for Damon about the baby.. She accused him of being too easy on his brother… of not caring how uncomfortable this whole situation is for her.

Then he told her that he loves Damon, and thinks you're a good influence on him, and while he doesn't think it's the best idea to keep the baby, he'll support Damon and his attempt to grow up. And that she should do the same.

Of course, Elena didn't like that and flipped out again. She said some things she shouldn't have—don't ask; I don't know what it was about—and claimed if anyone really cared about Damon like she did, we would've… I forget her exact words, but then she just left."

Caroline didn't forget, she just can't bring herself to tell me the truth. It's okay, though. I can fill in the blanks with ease.

"She's just trying to cope with… this." My hand flies to my stomach. It's still hard for me to think of this energy-sucking humanoid as my baby.

"Just talk her through it. Tell her Damon could use a little… more encouragement—especially from her. It's true and you don't have to tell her it came from me. She'll believe it without asking you to cite the source. Tell her that she shouldn't let her anger with me affect her relationship with both of them. This… fight isn't worth how bad she'll feel if she pushes Stef away. Oh, and tell her the dinner will be the perfect opportunity to make things better."

"I will."

"Good."

You know us so well," Care muses. "You're right, too. I just wish you could talk to her yourself. I gave up on listening to her vent when she stabbed a hole in my notes."

"Didn't she have her own?"

"No—that's why she had mine. She needed to copy them before the test next week. It wasn't a little hole either. She totally destroyed the section about inequalities!"

The solution to Caroline's problem is standing next to the row of lockers across the hall.

He's flipping through a binder, brows furrowed, mouth turned down. Man, Care usually exaggerates when telling a story, but she might've actually downplayed how bad that argument was.

"Care, I'm going to go see if I can fix this before tomorrow…"

She follows my gaze and when her eyes fall on Stefan, she nods. "You're going to make Stefan less emo?"

"Damon says that would be a scientific impossibility, but that doesn't mean I can't try."

"Should I be worried that you're quoting Damon?"

I don't answer her, as I'm already on my way over to the younger Salvatore brother. He doesn't react to my presence at first. He shuts his notebook and places it back inside his locker. When he faces me, I'm surprised to see the stress behind his broodiness.

I hadn't really thought about how all this would affect Stefan. His relationship with Damon is a lot like a roller coaster, so I imagine living with him hasn't been a walk in the park.

Damon gets snippy when he feels vulnerable.

"Hey Stef," I smile at him. "How are you—you know what, I'm going to cut to the chase. Caroline told me that Elena's been very combative lately."

"Bon, it's okay, you don't have to worry about us. You have to worry about yourself first—making sure Damon is on his best behavior is exhausting. Take it from someone who knows what it's like." The laugh that follows seems real, but that flicker of amusement is gone a second later, leaving a sadness in its wake.

"But I am worried about you. You're the only one I can talk to at parties. I would've died from frustration and/or boredom ten times over if you weren't there."

He shakes his head at me, as if my response is a far reach. "I can say the same thing to you."

"The only difference is _I_ caused you and Elena to fight—so I'm obligated to make you feel better."

"It's nice to see that Damon hasn't corrupted you," he begins. "But that's not true, Bon."

"She's mad at _me,"_ I remind him. "Not you… you fought because of a mistake I made. If there wasn't a problem, you would be making googly eyes at each other right now."

"Damon has some responsibility, too. It's a foreign concept to him, but he's handling things much better than I thought he would…"

I have to suppress the little voice in my head that wants to ask if Damon's mood has improved any. "Tell me about it. Seriously, though, I'm sorry. She's probably going crazy without you."

"You, too," he says evenly. "I'm going to give her space, Bonnie. And then, when she sorts out her feelings, we can talk things out."

Something tells me that he isn't just referring to Elena's anger toward me, and I'm not liking the reaction it's causing. I shake my head, take a deep breath, and re-center my thoughts.

_They both need to be at the restaurant. Focus, Bonnie!_

I'm on a mission. I need to take care of that right now and everything else can wait.

"I know you want to wait for her to come to you, but Elena always wants someone else to make the first move—no matter how many times she tells you to leave her alone."

Stefan's serious demeanor doesn't soften. This time, there's no acknowledgement of the joke that not really a joke. "I know, and that's the problem."

"She doesn't do it to be mean," I offer, voice crumpling. This isn't going the way I want it to.

"I know," Stef says with gentle reassurance. "And that's why I love her—she never _tries_ to hurt anyone. It'll be okay, Bon. _I'll_ be fine. So will Elena. I'll see her tomorrow and hopefully she will have cooled down."

_Okay, that's a good sign._

He looks like he wants to tell me something else, but the bell cuts into our conversation. The hallway floods with students who filter out of their respective classrooms in clusters. We stay as we are for a long moment, unmoving as the world goes on without us.

The way Stefan is looking at me, with concern, is unsettling. Not because I find it creepy, but because I'm not used to it.

"If _you_ want to talk to me, you know you can, right? Sometimes an outside perspective can be nice."

"Thanks, Stef. I'll keep that in mind for the next time I find myself crying because I ran out of ice cream."

"I'll see you tomorrow, Bonnie."

I nod wordlessly.

Well, that was a failure. A huge one. Their mutual attendance is not the beacon of positivity I had been hoping for. I was wrong. I don't know why I am so surprised about it either—I should be used to it by now.


	21. Fragile

* * *

**~Chapter Nineteen~**

* * *

_Why can't I be your lover?  
Can there be another?  
And when I feel without I want to get you in._

_~Better Than Ezra, Get You In~_

* * *

I stare at myself in the mirror, tugging at the hem of my dress.

It's tight.

And I had hoped that, if I got it to sit just right, I'd be able to wear it. I scowl at my reflection and pull at the fabric covering my stomach. It doesn't budge. Letting out a long sigh, I turn back to my closet, surveying my hangers for another option.

Mehri had informed me that Greg made reservations at a restaurant with a semi-formal dress code. Which restricts my wardrobe even more than it already is, considering I haven't even _tried_ to don a pair of jeans in a good two weeks.

I settle on a large sweater that hangs off my shoulder, and a pair of leggings I bought when Care chastised me for wearing sweatpants to school three days in a row. Although, I am sure a shopping trip is in my immediate future. Any excuse for Caroline's favorite activity is a perfectly good one in her eyes. And, I have to admit, that my ill-fitting pants is a valid one.

Not that I _want_ to buy my clothes from the maternity section, but I don't think I'll have much of a choice.

I zip up my boots and walk over my window, pushing my curtain away so I can get a clear view of the street. The only movement comes from my neighbors, the Crawford's, who live across from us. Mrs. Crawford is loading her young son into the car, which is blaring children's music. It's so loud that I can make out the lyrics from inside.

 _Baby Shark_ is too popular a song, in my opinion, but if it gets moody kids to behave it can't be all that bad… I stop myself before I get carried away. I’ve been trying to avoid any and all thoughts that might lead to a daydream about Damon and I being parents. Ever since we found out the baby is a girl; he hasn't been quite the same.

I can hazard a guess as to why, but knowing him, it could be a multitude of things that are unrelated but overwhelming him just as much as our predicament.

At least, I hope it's not _just_ what I think it is.

I leave my bedroom, shutting of the light and closing the door. My mother and father are actually home tonight, so I should at least give them the courtesy of telling them I wouldn't be around.

"Mom," I call, checking the living room.

She and Dad are curled up on the couch, watching a game show. His arm is around her shoulder, with the other hand holding a bowl of popcorn. I wrinkle my nose at the synthetic butter smell, trying not to gag as I enter the darkened room. The lights are off, and the only light source comes from whatever show they're attention is on. Shadows dance on the walls, the light from the television shining on their faces.

"Yes, sweetie?" they both turn their heads in my direction. Mom beams and Dad looks surprised to see me outside of my bedroom at this hour. "Why are you so dressed up?"

"My friend and I are going to grab something to eat," I say, hiking my bag onto my shoulder. 

“Where?” Mom asks, curious.

"Some kind of steakhouse near Hopewell. I should be back by twelve."

"That sounds fancy," she comments. She is clearly trying to act like it's no big deal, but the lilt in her voice when she says 'fancy' betrays her.

"So, is this friend a boy? If so, then I think we should have a talk." Dad tells me.

"Yes, it's a boy, but you don't need to worry. It's not a romantic thing."

"Sure, it's not," Dad says sarcastically. "Boys your age only want one thing. I know—I was a teenager once."

Funny, they were completely unaware of my brief relationship with Enzo, and when it was Damon I was spending time with—a boy they've known since I was a toddler—they weren't curious. Didn't think it could be romantic. The only thing that mattered was the alone time it provided them.

And I lost my virginity to him.

They're so oblivious, but oh so close to the truth at the same time. I wonder if they will find out on their own or if I will have to fess up someday soon. If they do, will look back on this and think _'how did we not see the signs?'_

I groan. "It's not a date and I don't have a boyfriend."

"Okay, but I reserve the right to intimidate any future boyfriends."

"I wouldn't have it any other way, Daddy." I give each parent a quick peck on the forehead. "Enjoy _Jeopardy!_ "

"Okay, honey. We'll probably be in bed when you get back; so, goodnight, too."

"Night," I echo, going into the foyer. I can hear the sound of Damon's car rumbling outside.

I'm unsure of how this "double date" with Damon and I as the third and fourth wheels will go, but at least I can count on my parents to be consistent with their inconsistent interest in my life.

I mean, why would they wait up to talk to their only child about her outing with friends when they could be having sex all night?

* * *

The place Greg suggested we go to is nice. _Really_ nice. The décor is sleek and modern, with angular tables and chairs, tall white candles are the centerpieces. The flames flickering around us give Monroe's steakhouse a cozy ambiance, while still maintaining the high-end feel.

Elena, Stefan, Mehri, and Greg are already seated at a table in the center of the room. They are chatting, laughing, and it looks like Stefan was right to say I didn't need to stress about his epic love story with Elena. They look like they've patched things up. I, quite nosily, want to ask Damon if he knows how they reconciled, but when I catch the disgruntled expression on his face, I stop myself.

He had been a bit more jovial on the ride here, and I thought that maybe he was just extra emotional about wanting to keep his daughter despite the hardships we'd have to work through. Now that his brother and Elena are around, I realize I may have been off base.

It's got nothing to do with the baby or our future (which, considering how uneasy that made me feel when I assumed he was doubting whether or not we could do this, should be a relief). Except, if he's not thinking about it, how can he say he cares?

_Ugh. These hormonal reactions are driving me insane._

Mehri stands up as we approach, holding her arms out for a hug. Damon returns the gesture, letting go of some of his grumpiness. I'm startled when his cousin wraps her arms around me. "Nice to see you again, Bonnie! Damon the Demon hasn't been bothering you too much, has he?"

Well, bothering and worrying are two different things. "No, at least not lately."

"Good!" she gives Damon a stern look. Then, she beckons to the twenty-something man who was sitting across from her. He bears a strong resemblance to Rob Evans, the judge on the later seasons of _America's Next Top Model._ Caroline has the biggest crush on him, and I can't help but imagine the way she'd drool over Mehri's date.

"Guys, this is Greg," she grabs her boyfriend's arm. You can tell from the way she radiates pure joy that she's totally enamored by him.

Damon shakes Greg's free hand. "Nice to meet you, _Greg._ You're treating Mehri right?"

The way Greg chuckles is infectious. And I feel a grin playing on my lips as he replies. "Yes—I don't think Milly would let me live if I didn't. Or Stefan… or you, by the sound of it."

"Smart assumption."

"Bonnie?" Greg addresses me. "It's nice to finally meet you. Stefan and Mehri have been telling me all about you. They say you're the only one who can get through to Damon."

"Oh… um, Elena can, too. I have less patience then she does." I risk a glance at my once self-proclaimed sister, whose mouth is drawn, resentment burning in her eyes.

"I see my reputation precedes me," Damon says loftily. "I'm flattered."

"Don't be," I quip. "Poor Greg needed to be warned about you."

For a moment, when Damon pulls me into an embrace, messing my hair up with his knuckles, I think that it will be fine, that I'm just imagining the tension between us. But when I catch Elena glaring at us, my hopeful outlook vanishes into thin air.

Damon's body goes rigid and he lets me go.

_Too much camaraderie._

We all find our chairs. And because my luck has been anything but good, mine is right next to Elena's. I can feel the agitation radiating off her body, the way she angles herself away from me. Like I have leprosy.

If Mehri picks up on the bad vibes, she doesn't act like it. "So, Stefan and Elena were telling us about their first date… at the school carnival, right?"

"Right," she confirms, though it's not necessary.

Caroline and I were there that night. I was manning the fortune-telling booth, reading palms and tarot cards in exchange for donations to the children's hospital. We played an integral part in getting them to admit their mutual feelings. If we hadn't set the whole thing up, who knows how long the awkward will they/won't they game would have gone on.

"… and then these two—" she points to the brothers, "come over to get their fortunes told. Care and Bonnie made sure I didn't leave our station. They made up this whole scenario about the world's most enduring love story and… well, Stefan looked at me and that's when _I knew."_

"You played matchmaker?" Greg looks at me with mild surprise. "That's so cute—especially since you and Damon seem to be so in-sync."

I flinch like I've been socked in the gut. That is the exact opposite of what I wanted to be told. Damon's eyes fall on me and I can't quite figure out the meaning behind the intensity he's throwing at me. I'm too busy with the sour expression on Elena's face, the way she pouts and tosses her curtain of brown hair over her shoulder.

I pretend I'm incredibly interested in picking off an imaginary piece of lint from my sweater.

Mehri clears her throat. "I'm going to order a drink… Greg, walk me to the bar?"

_So much for ignorance being bliss…_

"Sure."

When the pair disappears from our line of sight, Elena turns to me. I don't react at first, but when I finally do raise my eyes I see that hers are filling with tears.

"Elena…"

She holds her hand up. "Are you guys going to tell me what is going on between you?"

I furrow my brows, regarding her with bewilderment. "You know what's going on."

"Not really," she counters. "I don't understand why you felt the need to keep this a secret."

"I don't want to be a cautionary tale, Elena."

"Not _just_ about that. I mean you two hooking up. I thought you trusted me, Bonnie. Why didn't you tell me?"

I open and close my mouth. _This—the way you're acting right now,_ is what I want to say. I kept it under wraps because I was already hurt as it was, and then I _had_ to face it, had to accept the consequences of my stupid decision, and I just _knew_ she couldn't handle it.

She turns to Stefan and Damon. "Give us a second please."

They exchange a glance with each other, wary of leaving us alone. They look to me and I nod. Might as well get this over with. Maybe, once our friendship is truly put to rest, I'll be less frazzled. I know deep down that it isn't true, but if I didn't at least _try_ to believe it, I don't think I would be able to go through with our confrontation.

They leave the table, presumably to find Greg and Mehri, leaving us to our devices. They probably won't stray too far from the dining area. I am sure that Damon wants to know what was said between us.

"You know Damon is special to me. He's practically my big brother! This… tryst you're having is really driving a wedge into every relationship I have!"

"It's not a tryst," my voice is quiet. "We… had sex _once._ And part of me will regret it for the rest of my life."

"Well, you should! I've been a wreck over this. You stabbed me in the back!"

"That's not why I regret it, Elena." My voice doesn't sound like my own. "I regret it because I… I _don't._ I feel guilty because I would do it all over again if I had the chance to go back. And it's killing me that I am disappointing so many people I love because I… I don't want what they want. I should have a _choice_ in all this! I shouldn't have to _abort my baby_ because my best friend wants me to, because my parents want to control my future! Damon and I—we're friends; best friends… we were there for each other when no one else was…"

"You _know_ how I feel about Damon!"

"You have a crush on him," I whisper, if only so Stefan won't overhear me.

"No, but I _care_ about him. And if you cared like you say you do; you'd have listened to what I said!"

I swallow the lump in my throat, blinking back tears. “I would've gotten an abortion.“ The raw pain I feel acknowledging those words we left unsaid is almost too much. “Yeah, I know, but do you even know how Damon feels about it? Have you asked how he feels about his _daughter?"_ The last sentence is meant to hurt her. I'm making this fact real for her, informing Elena that this baby is Damon's.

And that she is part of _us—_ Elena has no say in the matter.

"As a matter of fact, I did! He actually wants to be a parent! I have no idea why… it's going to screw his life up. He hasn't talked about having a family… and now that's changed! Everything's changed… a-and h-he looks at you l-like…" she begins sobbing Tears cascade down her cheeks and she buries her face in her hands.

"Like what, Elena?" Seeing her so distraught makes me want to lose it, too.

"I- I don't e-e-ven know!" she stammers, peeking at me though the space between her fingers. "I just don't know!"

"I'm allowed to be his friend. We aren't five—we can't claim people." I suppress the urge to hug her, to turn into a blubbering mess and cry along with her.

She takes a staggered breath. "I understand that, but… I'm not used to it…"

"To what?" I say evenly. "To not being the center of everyone's attention?"

Part of me wonders if I’m going too far, saying things I shouldn’t.

"Of course not!" she exclaims, recoiling.

"Then why do you hate me, Elena? I don't get it. You aren't pregnant at seventeen. You don't have to puke every morning and night or be the hottest topic at school. You don't get ogled at for all the wrong reasons. You don't have to worry about Damon's moodiness…"

"I don't hate you," she insists. "I love you… I just… I don't like being treated like I can't handle problems. You don't have to keep secrets from me—I need to know the truth!"

"I don't want to go to Yale or any Ivy League school for that matter! Biophysics puts me to sleep. I have to figure out how to tell my mom and dad that I can't stand it. I hate myself for fucking up so bad. I hate that I hurt you. I hate that the fact that I had sex with Damon is a bad thing to you. I hate that I love being his best friend. I'm pregnant. I want to keep it. I'm not sure if we can. But that's where I'm at. Everything's happening so fast that I am going crazy. There—those are the truths. It doesn't give you solid answers, but I mean every word."

"Okay," she nods slowly, processing my statements. "I see the whole picture now…"

"What is it?"

"I don't think I gave you the feeling that you could tell me… and that was wrong… you could have. I would've held your hand while you figured it out… but it was so much news all at once… and next time, I promise to stop and think before jumping straight to an emotional breakdown."

"And what about Damon and Stefan?"

"You know I love Stef… I just got so used to Damon coming to me for approval that I got jealous when he became close to you. And… I'm sorry… you're good for him. Stef's right about that… and I will try to do better."

"Okay," I say. I want to believe her, to forgive her. I know she's still clinging for all of the Salvatore brother's attention, but I want our dynamic to improve so much that I'm willing to see if she practices what she preaches.

We head to the bathroom to collect ourselves.

When we return, everyone else has, too. Mehri and Greg are sipping on some tropical-themed blue drinks and Stefan welcomes his girlfriend with open arms and a peck on the cheek.

My friend giggles, straightening her olive dress before sitting back down. I watch Damon, who is stone-faced. Something he's attempting to hide. I know because, when he catches me staring, he sticks his tongue out at me. When I do the same, he smirks, but the concern is still etched onto his face.

I go back to my place at the table, surveying each face carefully. Did they catch any part of what Elena and I were talking about? Stefan, Greg, and Mehri haven't given any indication that they did. But… there's a pit in my stomach, a cold feeling of something that isn't _right._

"… and Damon ran so fast… crying! Over a stink bug!"

Mehri's re-telling of the story I heard from Milly elicits a collective laugh. I play along, desperately trying to shed the sense of doom hanging over me.

"Yeah, yeah. Again—I was a kid!"

When the waitress comes around, everyone orders something that I can't have or menu item that contains an ingredient that will churn my stomach.

Damon and Stefan order steak—medium-rare, just luck my Uncle Marshall prepares it when we visit him. And, according to him, well-done steak is a culinary crime (and seeing as I know nothing about cooking, I'm inclined to take him at his word). Elena orders sushi and I'm reminded of the way Caroline raved over the Asian cuisine in California. Mehri gets something topped with bleu cheese. And when it's my turn, I can't think of anything I'd find appetizing within my dietary restrictions.

That's another thing that sucks. The things I used to eat aren't appealing anymore.

"I guess I'll have the fried brussels sprouts."

The waitress scribbles something on her notepad and turns to leave.

But then Damon calls her back. "Wait… I want to change my order."

The curly-haired redhead, smiles politely and holds her pen over the paper expectantly. "And what would you like instead?"

"One of those onion appetizer things. And can you bring it out on two plates? If you don't, she'll eat the whole thing." He points to me. "She's a fried onion fiend. Seriously, you'd think they were cocaine or something." He says this in the most dramatic stage-whisper I've seen."

"Sure!"

We both gauge Elena's reaction with discretion. She's smiling, but it's tight. Forced. Like the one she plasters on her face when Caroline makes us watch _The Notebook_ for the trillionth time.

 _She's making an effort…_ I tell myself, but one look at Damon's faltering smirk makes me realize that it might not be enough.

* * *

Damon is still volleying between two different settings: emotionally distant and what I consider to be his normal.

I keep trying to get him to share his feelings with me. And he starts to, but after a certain point, it's like we've run into a wall. He claims that he's just tired, that he's getting his shit together, and he's just not used to working so hard for _insert motive or emotion here._ He never actually _says_ what it is, but he doesn't really have to—the implication is there.

And every time I'm faced with the silence, it's like he's driving a knife into my heart.

Today, it hurts more than it usually does.

I receive a text from him ten minutes before I expected to see him waltzing through the door.

_Feeling sick. Not going to school. Stefan promised me he'd be your pack mule. Talk to you later._

Sure enough, there's a light rap sounding through the foyer moments later.

I greet Stefan and Elena with a smile. "Thanks for coming over guys, but you don't have to lug my stuff around."

"I know," Stef says. "But I want to do it."

"He does." Elena reiterates. She appears less tense than the last time we interacted, which I hope is a sign in favor of our renewed sisterhood.

"Okay… just let me get rid of the stuff I don't need…" I once again remove my English lit supplies from my messenger bag, tossing them on the table haphazardly.

I'll worry about re-organizing it all later. "I'm ready. Let's get out of here."


	22. Fall From Grace

* * *

**~Chapter Twenty~**

* * *

_Fathers, be good to your daughters  
Daughters will love like you do  
Girls become lovers who turn into mothers  
So mothers be good to your daughters, too_

_~John Mayer, Daughters~_

* * *

My father is sitting at the kitchen table, hands clasped in front of his mouth, a frustrated expression on his face. Something is very off. Actually, a couple of things aren't adding up. Dad is supposed to be at his office, working overtime. And he isn't going about his usual after-work routine. There is no newspaper spread out in front of him. He hasn't brewed any decaf coffee. His old, ratty slippers aren't on his feet.

The room is dark, too, which is very odd for a sunny afternoon. My dad is big on letting the natural light illuminate every room in our home. My mother painted the kitchen bright yellow to "make the room happier," as she puts it. But today, the yellow-and-white checked curtains are closed. Gone is the uplifting atmosphere. I feel like I've stepped inside an interrogation room.

"Come have a seat, Bonnie Sheila Bennett." He points to the chair directly across from his.

I wrack my brain. I haven't done anything to warrant the use of my full name, have I? The last time either one of my parents pulled that card I was thirteen and they had caught me with a pack of Caroline's cigarettes.

I shake my head. "Can't Dad. I've got college applications to finish."

"Now!"

I drop my bag on the floor and hurry over to the hot seat.

"What's up?" I ask, "Did I leave a candle burning or something?"

My father raises his eyebrows in disbelief. "This is far more serious than forgetting to blow out a candle."

"I'm not following…"

"What is this?" He slides something across the table. It is a small square, lying face-down.

Please don't be what I think it is. I flip the card over.

Staring back at me is the ultrasound I've been carrying around. It is supposed to be with the rest of my school supplies in my bag.

And then my eyes land on the purple notebook wedged underneath Dad's elbow. It had been hiding amongst my English notes.

"This would be an ultrasound image."

"With your name on it."

I nod. "That would be correct."

"Honestly, I don't know what to say!"

"I understand," I say quickly, standing up. I've got to get out of here. "But those applications won't write themselves."

My father had other ideas—unfortunately. "You are not going anywhere, young lady."

I return to my chair, defeated.

"I don't know what's worse: the fact that my teenage daughter is pregnant or the fact that she hid it from her parents for two months!"

"I didn't hide it for two months."

If my father's eyebrows could go any higher, they would fly right off of his face. "I can read, Bonnie. _That thing_ says nine weeks in the corner."

"… It's old." I reply, shrinking into the chair. I wish a black hole would appear in the middle of the kitchen and swallow me whole. "It's closer to four months."

"Four months!" My father yells. "You've been lying to us for four months?"

I flinch. "I technically didn't lie. I just didn't tell you guys."

"I'm not going to argue semantics with an eighteen-year-old!"

I nod slowly.

"How did this happen?"

I immediately picture Damon. He would have some… interesting… answers to that question. "I made a mistake."

"That's an understatement! We didn't even know you had a boyfriend!"

_Fuck. This just keeps getting more and more uncomfortable._ "I don't. It was a one-time thing."

"That's lovely, Bonnie. What were you thinking?" The anger in my father's voice is turning into sorrow.

"I wasn't." No need to mention the amount of alcohol that was involved.

"I can't believe you were so _thoughtless._ I want to know who the…" he squeezes his eyes shut, rubs his temples. "Who did this to you?"

I don't point out that it takes two to tango and I was a _very_ eager participant. "… Damon Salvatore."

"And you both thought having a baby in _high school_ would be a good idea?"

I shake my head fiercely. "No! I didn't wake up and say _'I know what I want to do today! I should get pregnant! Mom and Dad will be so proud!"_ I sound like Damon and my flippant response has incensed my father even more.

"It wouldn't matter if you did! How did you think we'd react?"

I'm at a loss for words. _Like this_ is my first answer, but the vein bulging in his forehead warns me that I shouldn't dig my grave any deeper.

He pauses, waiting for my reply. I say nothing, my silence adds to the tension overtaking the room.

"So, what is it, Bonnie? Do you actually think you can have a baby and do all the great things you're capable of?"

My eyes are beginning to burn. "I don't know."

"It was your dream to study biophysics." Dad sounds heartbroken. "To move away from Mystic Falls and make a name for yourself!"

"That's _your_ dream. I didn't get a choice. I don't get a say in much, but I know what I want—it just doesn't match what you want perfectly. It never has!""

"You're just saying that because you don't want to admit how badly you screwed everything up."

I'm really beginning to hate the Bonnie who thought she could please everyone, make everyone happy, and that her feelings didn't matter in the grand scheme of things.

The Bonnie who took everyone else's hopes and dreams and pretended they were her own.

"I'm not," I insist. "I'm confused… I don't know what I should do… I just couldn't… I…"

"Well, you better figure it out, kid. And you better do it soon because I'm not going to do it for you. I'm so disappointed in you, you had the chance to do whatever you wanted! I can't even look at you right now!"

The choked noise that comes out of my mouth is startling. The truth of his words hit me like a ton of bricks. The quiet fury is written all over his face and I say the only thing I can come up with that might mean anything to him. "Dad… I'm sorry! I'm _so sorry!"_

"So am I."

* * *

Well it's official. I'm fighting a battle that I cannot win. Universe: one; Bonnie: a big, fat nothing. I have gone from being Mystic Falls highest overachiever to the world's biggest disappointment in a matter of hours. I've never had a habit of making the wrong choices and, well, that's all I seem to be doing now.

After my father's rant, he sent me to my room to "think about what I've done," as if I were a small child. And he's completely in the right. I suppose I have a lot more to figure out than I'm ready to admit. I have been putting off making a bunch of essential decisions. All while pretending that I had everything under control—simply because I refused to believe that I was capable of fucking up even further. Having drunken, unprotected sex with Damon was a brief lapse of judgement. Getting pregnant was an unfortunate side-effect. But I would do the right thing because that's what I've always done.

And I had been so sure I knew what that was.

But I had been thinking with my heart, not my brain. Damon and I had been avoiding the hard topics. Like children. Scared, dumb children. Maybe I should have gone through with the abortion… I almost wish that Damon hadn't given me that get-out-of-jail-free card. Why had he been so understanding? So _not Damon_.

I roll over on my bed and try to pull my knees up to my chest—to no avail. My body has changed just enough to make bending over and sobbing in the fetal position very difficult tasks. The crying itself comes very easily, though. And the longer I cry, the more confused I feel. I'm so wrapped up in my misery that I don't hear my bedroom door open, don't realize my mother is here until she's standing right in front of my bed.

She nudges my leg. "Scoot over."

I sigh and push myself up into a sitting position.

"I seemed to have missed a lot in the past few months."

I sniffle. "I guess so."

She puts an arm around my shoulder and pulls me in for a hug. "Catch me up, then. Start at the very beginning."

I shift away from her and tug at my sweatshirt uncomfortably. My mom is saying all the right things, but there is a lack of warmth in her words, making them sound meaningless. And she knows it. Abby Bennett is frazzled. She looks like she just had the wind knocked out of her. I can't really fault her for it either. She wasn't expecting to walk in the door and be greeted with the news that her teenage daughter is pregnant.

"Um… it started with a challenge."

"A challenge?"

I selected that particular word because I thought it was the most innocuous option. I kind of forgot that my parents are only semi-aware of my antagonistic relationship with Damon. They, for some unknown reason, assumed that we had grown out of our rivalry—which we hadn't… at the time.

"Damon and I… we were trying to… I don't know…" _deal with our family's blatant disregard of our existence_ seems inappropriate, so I settle for the ever-simple and overused, "have fun."

"And?"

"And… one thing led to another and you know the rest of it."

She thinks this over and I can see her working through my explanation, making sense of it all. "I… didn't know you and Damon were more than friends. When did your relationship… change?" she's struggling to find an acceptable way to describe it as I'm sure she can't picture a version of her daughter brazen enough to engage in casual, unprotected sex.

"We're not, we never were." I look away. "Obviously, it was supposed to be a… singular incident… and it _was."_

"You didn't think to use protection?" My mom furrows her brows. "That doesn't seem like you."

"I wasn't in a normal frame of mind." I explain. "And then, we went to take care of it and- I- I couldn't- do it." The reality of what I'm telling her is staring me down and the fact that I don't know my next move makes it all the more terrifying.

I didn't _want_ to make that appointment. However, I _should have_ gone through with it because I _am_ so lost, but I didn't. Now I finally have to face the fallout.

"And what does Damon want to do?"

Well, that's a question I'm driving straight past. Damon's feelings are complicated and when I think about the direction his comments have taken me in, I end up pondering my burgeoning affection for him, the picture that I'm beginning to paint in my head.

Because I kind of _like it_ and that's dangerous. He might _think_ he wants something, but it's Damon. He doesn't like being locked into anything. And anyway, he's been acting odd the past few days. So, maybe he's already regretting our choice or lack thereof.

I can't relay that information to my mom. If I say it out loud, I might realize how chaotic my approach is.

I wipe my nose on my sleeve. "I can't go to any of the schools you guys want!"

"What is it that you want, then? I didn't realize we weren't on the same page on that subject."

"I don't even know. I just… got attached, I guess." I turn to look my mom in the eyes for the first time. I expect to see the same hopelessness in her irises that I saw in Dad's. But I don't. Instead, I see worry. Pure, unadulterated worry.

"Bon, this isn't something you figure out at the last minute. This is a big deal and it doesn't just affect you—it affects _us,_ too. And if you do choose to do this, I'll support you, and I'll… help you, but it's your responsibility to make it work." She's silently begging me to do anything but keep it.

"I will," I assure her.

I knew I wasn't going to get a warm response. No congratulations or exclamations of joy. I knew they were going to want me to choose a route that would ultimately circle back to a biophysics degree from _insert name of a Top Five school here._ But they were supposed to outright _say_ that.

Dad was supposed to say you need to see your original plan through.

Mom was supposed to echo that sentiment.

All this time I've been doing what they asked of me, without complaint, and now that I need some _real_ guidance I'm finally told to do something without any of their say-so.

How backward is that?

All this time I just wanted everyone to be happy. I never wanted to hurt my mom or dad, I never wanted to upset Elena or watch Care try to ping-pong between us.

But I _do_ want Damon in my life. I know I want him by my side when the dust settles _. If_ he wants to be there when it happens, that is.

And it sucks that wanting that is going to cause pain to someone I love. And if I don't get it, I'll be left holding all the responsibility. But if Damon and I want to do this our own way, shouldn't we be allowed to try? Shouldn't we get some advice? Maybe if someone gave me some insight, I could get him to stop being so distant.

Why is that such a difficult request to fulfill?

And why does his absence make me feel like something is missing, like someone took a chunk of my flesh from my body and hid it somewhere I can't find it?

I wish Grams were here—then I might have gotten some meaningful advice.


	23. Don't Look Back in Anger

* * *

**~Chapter Twenty-One~**

* * *

_You've been trying too hard trying to start  
It takes time, don't lose yourself  
Don't keep fighting your heart, stay as you are  
Don't change for anyone else_

_~Birdy, Beating Heart~_

* * *

I just wanted _one_ day.

One chance to get my bearings, to not worry about who thinks what about me—including my father, who has yet to speak to me in a normal, non-snarky tone since our disagreement the other day.

You would think that, after realizing your seventeen-year-old daughter totally destroyed the trust you had in her, that you'd become a little more watchful. Or at least _there._ In the house, asking where she's going or who she's spending her time with.

Maybe they would even ground her.

Not Rudy Bennett.

He throws himself into anything but family life. Yeah, I know he did that prior, but it's gotten worse. He has rearranged his schedule, so he reports to work in the evening. That way, he completely eliminates the possibility of having to look at me.

Mom isn't handling this much better than Dad.

She's made an effort to leave work by six, to set aside thirty minutes to talk to me, ask me about my day. Surface level topics that she only brought up if our paths crossed as I left the house. It used to just be an annoying. Now, the forced attention adds to the tension between us.

I can tell by the way she talks, in a strained tone, always pausing every other sentence to evaluate my reactions. This hurts her. I'm not the girl she thought I was. A sentiment her husband is quick to agree with.

Care thinks I'm reading too much into their actions, that they're just coming to terms with being grandparents in their late forties. And, maybe, if I hadn't heard the conversation Mom and Dad had when they thought I was asleep, I'd say she's probably right.

But I _did_ hear them.

Every single word, spoken in soft but angry tones. Whispers that gradually rose in pitch until it was practically a shouting match.

" _I tried, Rudy, I really did! But… that isn't Bonnie—our daughter would never put herself in this situation!"_

" _So, we thought. She had such a bright future—I can't believe she honestly wants to go through with it. I can't believe you said it would be_ okay! _Honestly, Abby, I'd expect something like that from your mother; not you!"_

I never thought I'd miss the days where the worst thing I heard was the near-constant sex. But… here we are. This must be what rock-bottom feels like.

A swift punch in the gut. One that's knocked the air out of me, leaving me gasping desperately, scrambling to catch my breath.

When I woke up this morning, I thought I would be able to do that. The house had been parent-free, and I only had to puke twice during the night. A win, small, but still satisfying. This is what a Saturday morning in the Bennett household is _supposed_ to look like.

Me, lounging on the sofa, in sweatpants and a school spirit t-shirt I purchased when I was a freshman, cartoons on the television, a bowl of chocolate cereal in my hands. By the time I've watched half an episode of _Rick and Morty,_ I'm usually done eating breakfast. But, despite my minimal nausea earlier, the smell of artificial cocoa is doing a number on my stomach.

My phone beeps, signaling an incoming text message. I'm relieved for the excuse to put off trying to force one more spoonful down my throat, Sure, I'm by myself and I can technically stop without anyone voicing disapproval, but part of me has started feeling guilty for _not_ eating.

Like I'm deliberately depriving her of nutrients (I’ve been trying to think of this situation in a warmer light), the chance to be as healthy as possible. A ridiculous notion from someone who doesn't even know if she has the wherewithal to take care of another human being.

_Hey… can you come over? I need my Jiminy Cricket._

My response is automatic: _Why can't I be the angel on your shoulder?_

_You're short and annoying. Duh._

That's a good sign. Damon's poking fun at my height again. Maybe that aloof, Stefan-like mood swing has balanced itself out. I certainly hope so—the vibe my best friend has been putting out lately has left me a little hurt and very confused.

_I am going to forget you wrote that. I'll be there in fifteen._

The smiley face I get in return gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling in the pit of my stomach. A sensation that seeps down to my toes, spreading down my arms and into my fingertips.

 _At least_ somebody _isn't acting like I'm a screw-up._

I quickly toss my dishes in the sink. And for reasons that have nothing to do with Damon, change out of my bedclothes. As I grab my keys, I hesitate. I know Dad will go ballistic if he comes home and sees that I'm not—it's hypocritical. Sure, _they_ can come and go as they please (and haven't even really bothered to alter the rules, though it's clear that they feel I should change them myself). I mean, how many ways can one take passive-aggressive comments like, _"do you really think you should be going to Caroline's house this late at night?"_

My dad will automatically assume I've run off to an orgy with Damon if he doesn't have any context to pull from.

I take a sheet from my mother's sacred notepad on the refrigerator. Writing:

_Went to the drug store for a few things. Be back before dark.  
-Bonnie_

There, that _should_ cut down on the possible interrogation I'll receive if one parental unit decides to abandon their roles in the workforce for half a day. Especially with the difference in Dad's weekly schedule (as if).

Stefan answers the door when I press my finger to the bell.

"Bonnie— _thank God_ you're here. Damon's broken."

I laugh, a sound that becomes awkward when I notice that the younger Salvatore brother hasn't joined in. "Oh… you're not kidding."

"I wish I was," he welcomes me inside. "He's been… acting weird since he got up today."

"Weirder than the past few days?"

"Yeah…" Stef sighs, rubbing his temples. "I left Elena and Damon alone in the kitchen earlier."

A wave of anxiety hits me. Sweat begins to pool on my forehead as my body reacts to the burst in adrenaline. The possibilities stemming from an encounter between two of my three best friends aren't ones I want to imagine.

The first—and probably most likely, if I'm listening to the voice in the back of my head—would be Elena choosing to confess her not-so-platonic feelings for Damon. The scenario unfolding in the hell I'm creating for myself ends in them embracing, kissing… I hate how repulsive I find it… hate that I don't want to delve into _the why_ behind my disgust.

"They got into it…" and when he sees the way I wrinkle my nose at his phrasing, Stefan adds, "a fight. Verbally."

 _That's not that much better…_ I think bitterly. Elena _promised_ me she'd try not to buy a one-way ticket to Crazy Town. How is arguing with her boyfriend's older brother keeping her word?

"… I don't really know what it was about but… Damon was the one yelling… so, really, I guess _he_ got mad at _her._ He apparently told her to go, so she did…"

Damon, at least the Damon who adores Elena, would never raise his voice to her. He values her high opinion of him far too much to jeopardize it.

"If you'll get Elena's side, I'll get his." I nod toward the staircase. Damon's in his bedroom. I can hear the 90's rock music from my place in the entryway. _Just like that stupid kid's song…_ who would have thought I’d end up associating _Bush_ with the creator of _Baby Shark?_

Definitely not me.

"Thank, Bon."

"Ditto."

When I first see Damon, he's lying on his giant bed, hands on his chest, legs straight out in front of him. He is staring at the ceiling, taking deep breaths, though it doesn't seem to be doing that much good—his jaw is still clenched, body tense.

"Salvatore…"

"Bonnie—my judgmental partner-in-crime, what took so long?"

"I thought I made good time…"

"Way to hold yourself to a higher standard…"

I survey the surrounding area. Nothing's really changed that much as far as appearances go. His jacket is thrown over the back of a chair, a few flannel shirts are on the floor, having missed their target of the hamper adjacent to the bureau.

But the angst? It has far surpassed even Stefan's level of emo.

I climb into the bed, laying my head on the only free pillow. Not once has Damon even _looked_ in my direction. Not when I came in without knocking or when I began to talk.

"What's wrong? Your ego finally died from over-exertion?"

He snorts, still refusing to turn his head. "I guess you could say that."

"What happened?"

"… don't worry about it."

"Well, it's too late for that. So just tell me."

A long, exasperated groan. "I blew up at Elena. Bad move. I think I may have been wrong. You know, maybe I overreacted."

"You've been known to do that," I say gently, placing a hand atop both of his. "But let me be the judge of that."

"It _is_ your greatest talent."

"So, you've said—a billion times."

"Elena asked me about… my _intentions._ Said you deserved more from me, which isn't wrong. She told me you wanted to keep her," he cringes slightly. It’s clear he isn’t referring to Elena. “Asked if I would stick around if we did… if that's what I wanted, too."

That's a little unexpected.

"And I said it wasn't her concern, that she should butt out. She's right, though. I feel selfish for still wanting to leave Mystic Falls and wanting to play house with you—it's not fair to you or her." He closes his eyes. "She said I couldn't do both… that I would never be more than a jerk… just like you always told her."

 _Ouch._ I thought it hurt when Damon started "dating" one of my least favorite people, that it stung when Elena resented me when I needed her the most, that Enzo's betrayal was agonizing, same with my parent's crushing disappointment… but this… the sacrifices Damon would have to make so I'd have what I wanted… that's unbearable.

"Damon… go do what you told me you want. I'm not going to stand in your way… I can't ask you to make that kind of sacrifice… _that's_ not fair. I wouldn't expect that from anyone. I don't get to choose what your future will look like. I don't want you to feel obligated to stay when you've worked so hard to go. We still have time to find a family willing to adopt her…"

The pain in his eyes is killing me. "Bonnie… that's not—"

"I want you to be happy."

"I want you to be happy, too. And I want the best for all of us."

I will the tears to stay where they are, burning my eyeballs. "Then make up with Elena… take the ASVAB… kick ass. Don't give up on everything for me."

He's going to try though; the proof is written on his face. The way he's trying to suppress his inner turmoil, how he holds my hand, silently begging me to listen to him.

But I _can't._

Spending so much time chasing someone else's dreams has taught me that you should never force anyone to do exactly as you say. The end result is always resentment.

I pull away. "Damon… I need to think… I can't act like your plans are less important… please… just let me go…'

I hurry out of the room, running down the spiraled staircase as if my life depends on my hasty exit. I hear Damon open the bedroom door, am acutely aware of the heavy footfalls coming from behind me.

_Don't look back…_

I can feel his fingertips brush against my shoulder blade.

_Don't look back…_

I yank the front door open, running out of the house and down the driveway. I know I must look like a mad woman, crazy, delusional, but I can't bring myself to care. I only have one thought pushing me forward.

_Don't look back…_

* * *

I don't go home.

Instead, I go to the park.

My feet are on fire, my pulse pounding in my head, heart thumping wildly. Once I got far enough away from the Salvatore residence, I didn't know where to go, what I should do. So, I kept running. Boots slamming into the pavement, legs moving so fast I felt like I had been flying.

I only stopped when I got to the bench a few yards from where Damon and I liked to picnic, staring at the clouds or the moon and stars, depending on the time of day.

I collapse onto the seat, pressing my back to the connected table. My hands are on my knees, keeping my body somewhat upright. I gasp, pulling air into my lungs frantically. Though, after a minute, my heart rate starts to slow and I'm able to catch my breath.

Tilting my head to the sky, I try to soak in the little warmth the sun is providing. Perspiration cools on the skin exposed to the elements—my hands, neck, and face. It's such a beautiful day, despite the death fall and winter bring with them. Soon, it will be springtime—a season of re-birth. Another grain of sand on the bottom of an hourglass…

Closer and closer until I have no choice but to go to school on Dad's terms, until nature separates me from my baby in more ways than one.

The crying begins, leaving behind a trail of what feels like ice water on my cheeks. I don't want to let her go… it's killing me, but if I want Damon to follow his chosen path then I must… even though it'll leave me dead on the inside.

I've calmed down a little, the crying almost completely stopping when I tell myself there's no other way, that I need to buck up. But that doesn't last very long.

The anxiousness I felt earlier comes back full-strength. I nearly jump out of my skin when I hear Damon's voice.

"I figured you'd be here."

I wipe my face with the sleeve of my coat. "That sounds like something a stalker might say."

"Oh," he says smugly. "I know."

"Don't sound _proud_ of your creepiness."

"I'm not." God, why does he sound so even keeled?

"Whatever. You didn't need to come after me." My voice is laced with sorrow.

"Yes, I did," he brushes me off. "What's the 4-1-1, Bon Bon?"

"If you want an answer then stop talking like a dad from the nineties."

"No promises. It doesn't matter—you'll tell me anyway. I know your weak spots.”

I roll my eyes. "Whatever, Damon."

"I'm waiting, Bennett. _Tick, tock_."

I huff indignantly. "I want the best for you… for her… and it isn't me."

Damon's quiet for several moments. Ruminating over my words, as if each one had a sacred meaning behind it. He sits on the grass, motioning for me to follow suit.

I do, though I'm not sure why. "And I can't be a mom, go to Yale, _and_ make my mom and dad the parents of a world-renowned doctor/scientist."

"No, but out of everything you listed, you only want one of those things."

"It's not about what I want."

"But it is— _you can do it._ What you want. You can go to Whitmore, be an English major or an anthropology student… they have a child development center for students that's heavily discounted. Maybe even free. I can help pay for it if it isn't, with the money I get from basic training. You just have to man up and tell everyone what you want."

"It isn't that simple…"

"I know," he says soothingly. "But I want her. I don't want someone else to be her dad… and neither of us have to sacrifice _everything_ to do it. If you want to take an accelerated class, I'll watch her when I'm home. We can do this. It won't be all sunshine and roses, but we _will_ work our asses off for the moments that will be."

He pulls me into his arms, left palm resting on my stomach. "Are you sure?"

"Not one hundred percent, but if you _listened_ to what I said, you'd know I thought a lot about it."

There's a fluttery sensation in my abdomen. "I'm sorry… what made you come up with this?"

"I'm a superbly intelligent human being—it just came to me."

I give him a funny look. "How… humble of you."

Damon smirks. "I know."

"You're _sure_ about this?" I ask again nervously.

"Yes—what's with the parrot act?"

"I guess I'm just worried about you missing out on things." I say, embarrassed.

"I'm flattered."

"You're not afraid of what could go wrong?"

He sighs and turns to face me. "No, besides, I think it's a little too late in the game to worry about it now."

"Oh really, then why were you so upset an hour ago?"

"I have my reasons," he replies without elaboration.

"What are they? Tell me, _I'm all ears_."

"It's _you_ , Bonnie Bennett. _You're_ the reason and it's driving me crazy." I see an intensity in his eyes that I've only seen a few times. Usually, it's directed at someone else. I'm a bit unnerved by how easy it is to get swept up in the enigma that is Damon Salvatore.

I shake my head and frown. "I haven't done anything!"

"But you are! Right now! You sit there and you're so nice to me, even though I completely fucked up your life and you're so smart and… you never do exactly what I think you will… and you're such a good person. And I'm not. How am I supposed to live up to a… a daughter when she has a mom like you?"

I'm a bit taken aback. "What?"

"… I don't want to be like _him_. He wasn't always an ass… after my mom died, he changed, and I decided I wasn't going to be like dear old dad. I wasn't going to strong arm you into doing something you didn't want. And I didn't want to get rid of her either. Even if it was the smartest thing to do."

"Damon…" the wind blows my hair in my face. He sweeps it behind my ears. I scoot closer to him, his free hand on my tear-stained cheek. "You have really long eyelashes."

"And you have pretty eyes." He shifts his body so he's in front of me.

I look down. "Yours are prettier."

"Yeah… I know." He tilts my head upward, snarky grin on his face.

Slowly, cautiously, he leans forward. I move backward until I am lying on my back, staring up at him. "Hi."

He moves closer to me and I remember that night in the expensive beach house. He stops. I blink and the next thing I know his lips are on my forehead.

"Damon…" I breathe. "What are you doing?"

He recoils like I've thrown ice water in his face. I almost regret saying anything at all. "I was going to kiss you…"

"Oh," I whisper. "Then by all means, don't let me stop you."

His lips are pressed against my cheek, and then my lips. I wrap my arms around his neck, vaguely aware of how cold the ground is, how solid and unyielding it is underneath my body.

When he pulls back, I keep him from moving too far away, locking my fingers together.

"I like you, Bennett. A lot."

"I like you, too, Salvatore."

"Oh, good. I was worried there for a second."

"Is this going to become _a thing_ now?"

"I hope so," and then he kisses me again, and I find myself in enthusiastic agreement.


	24. Iris

* * *

**~Chapter Twenty-Two~**

* * *

_And I'd give up forever to touch you  
'Cause I know that you feel me somehow_

_~Goo Goo Dolls, Iris~_

* * *

I don't want to be here.

Playing a passive role in our newly healed trio.

Sitting in the middle of a department store, waiting for Elena and Caroline to emerge from their dressing rooms is not exactly how I envisioned my Saturday going. But here I am, in a show of support for my two best friends. I think back to a time when I would have enjoyed a shopping spree, trying on as many articles of clothing I desired. Those days are long gone.

I stare at the racks of dresses in front of me. The green ottoman outside of fitting rooms gives me a clear view of all the things that will never fit me the same way again. A long bohemian-style dress catches my eye. It manages to be both form-fitting and flowing, at least that is how it appears to fit on the mannequin. I love the light floral pattern, it's simple and dainty. _Too bad I can't wear it._ I suddenly find myself wishing I were attending the Sadie Hawkins dance. Elena and Stefan are obviously going together, and Caroline has decided to ask Tyler.

I suppose I could have invited Damon to go with me, but I don't think I can handle much more of the blatant staring. Ever since our make-out session in the park, something has completely changed in our behaviors around our group. We haven't made our relationship "official." At least, we haven't outright said anything about the status of our romantic feelings for one another. Though Caroline is _dying_ for confirmation that our UST has transformed into _resolved sexual tension._ We've still been hanging out on a regular basis, though watching movies and pillow fighting feels a lot more intimate now and he will kiss my cheek or put a hand around my waist at school. That, of course, earns us many confused looks from people who are more interested in the rumors flying around than actually getting accurate information.

Both Elena and Caroline have sworn up and down that they aren't the cause of the whispers, that they haven't told anyone that Damon and I are romantically involved (despite appearances). and, at first, I didn't believe them. Especially because Elena still has a hard time concealing the bitter look in her eyes every time Damon displays any sort of affection for me. But they were so vehement about the whole thing, that I dropped the matter. I also came to realize that the gossip mill is probably running on the goofy smile I get on my face whenever Damon is nearby. Well, that _and_ my recent weight gain is probably why I'm now the center of attention.

"So, what do you think?"

I tear my gaze away from the dress. Elena is standing in front of me, hands on her hips. The outfit she is wearing resembles the one she wore to the Homecoming dance last month. A simple, short white dress with lace accents.

"I like it, but don't you want to try something a little different? Like maybe the same dress in black?" I'm aware that my advice likely bought me another hour of sitting here, but the least I can do is be honest.

She nods thoughtfully. "Good idea, Bon!"

I accompany her over to the rack where she found the original dress. I begin combing through the various dresses, hoping to find one in black that is Elena's size. I can't help but feel a pang of jealousy when I come across one. _I can't fit in these anymore._

I hand over the hanger. "This will look great with your black heels!"

"Thanks, Bonnie. I'm glad you're here." She wraps me in another one of her hugs. She's been giving me a lot of those lately.

"You're welcome."

"Are you going to ask Damon?"

I regard her suspiciously. She is peering at me earnestly. "To the dance?"

"In the words of one Caroline Forbes: _duh."_

We begin walking back over to the dressing rooms. "I don't think so. I mean, I think it's unrealistic."

" _I_ don't think so," Elena counters. "You need to have a little fun."

"I second that!" Care says, approaching us. She is wearing a champagne-colored dress. There is a deep cut-out on the torso. It's the kind of outfit only Caroline Forbes could pull off. She looks gorgeous.

"That's the one for you!" I give her a thumbs-up. "Tyler's mouth is going to be on the floor!"

"You think?" She is beaming.

I nod eagerly. "I know so."

Elena turns to face our blonde-haired friend. "Don't you think Bonnie should ask Damon to the dance?"

"Duh!"

"See?" Elena looks at me triumphantly. "You should totally do it!"

I place my arms across my chest and glare. "Oh yeah? And wear what exactly?"

"Whatever you want!" Care trills.

"Except I can't fit in anything I want." I chew on the inside of my cheek. "I can't even afford it, really. I have to save what I have. Something tells me my mom won't want to throw me a baby shower."

"Well, you don't have to make a choice now," Elena tells me. "Just think about it."

"Okay." I say, but I don't think I mean it.

And then we pass my worst nightmare: the maternity department. I see blouses, t-shirts, jeans, slacks, sweaters, and even sweatpants. The women on the advertisement hanging on the wall look so happy. Glowing, like this is the best thing ever. I wish I could have that. Instead I'm stuck with conspicuous looks, laughs, and the disappointment of my father. I'm actually surprised he didn't make a big deal about me going out with Care and Elena. He is convinced I’m always up to something now.

Caroline grabs my arm and leads me into the dreaded section. Elena trails close behind. "Just try something on. Have fun, you don't have to buy anything." Care smiles at me hopefully.

"Fine." I relent, because while I don't want to go, a very small part of me wants to have a few carefree experiences before I don't have a chance anymore. I've spent so much time trying to achieve academic glory that the easy moments seem far and few between. And in a short while, my priorities are going to change drastically.

We scour the shelves, display tables, and racks. It takes us awhile to find anything I like. Elena is the first one to spot something I would deem wearable.

"This is Bonnie Bennett." She shows me a lavender, lace maxi dress. It has a slit up the side. I would love to be able wear something like this. I might have even selected it despite the amount of leg it shows if I weren't pregnant.

But I am. So, I can't. "Elena…"

"Please, Bon! You'll look great and it's even on clearance."

 _This is just for fun,_ I remind myself. I take the hanger and head into the dressing room. I try not to look in the mirror as I get undressed. I hate feeling so uncomfortable in my own body, but there's nothing I can do about it right now. And then I lock eyes with my reflection. The dress fits well. It's not tight, which is a relief. It's the perfect length and the off-the-shoulder sleeves are not as revealing as I thought they would be. Even the slit wasn't as high as I predicted.

I look _nice_.

I don't feel as nervous as I did before agreeing to this. I have regained some of my confidence, if only for the moment.

"Bonnie, you look _amazing_!"

Elena grins. "I was right. It's perfect!"

"I guess. It _does_ look better than my current wardrobe."

"You should totally buy it!" Caroline holds the tag up. "Twenty-two dollars—I'm getting it for you."

"You don't need to do that, Care. I'm probably not going to go to the dance."

"You could save it for something else," Elena suggests. "You never know what might come up."

Well, _that_ sounds suspicious. "Like what?"

"Don't worry about it." They say in unison.

Elena ushers me back into the dressing room. I put my jeans back on and pray that the button doesn't come flying off. Super-stretch fabric, my ass. She grabs the dress as soon as I drape it over the door.

By the time I'm ready to leave the stall, both Elena and Caroline are waiting for me, three garment bags between them.

Care thrusts one of them into my hands. "All yours!"

"Thank you." I say quietly. "You didn't have to do that."

"Yes, yes I did."

And then we link arms and leave the store. I push away the weird feeling that warns me my friends are up to something.

* * *

"Don't you have something to ask me?"

I shut my locker door and turn to face Damon. He's propping himself up against the wall. Leather jacket slung over his shoulder, black t-shirt and jeans accentuating all of his good attributes. I'm struck by how glaring my attraction to him has become. Objectively, I had always known he was good-looking, but his annoying tendencies have always overshadowed that—until recently.

I think this over. Yes, I did have a few things I wanted to discuss with him. Some practical and some… not. But nothing I feel comfortable talking about at school.

"Nope."

He raises his eyebrows. "Surely there must be _something._ "

"Fine." I throw my hands up in exasperation. "Have you come up with any ideas on how I should break the news to the people who gave me life that I want to be a mother at eighteen... officially?"

"That's not what I meant."

"Then what _do_ you mean?"

"God, if you want something done right you have to do it yourself. Bonnie Bennett, you are so frustrating, but you are also amazing, smart, and kind. Sure, your judgmental, and uptight, but you're also funny and beautiful and—"

"I'm confused. Are you trying to compliment me or knock my self-esteem down a few pegs?"

Damon rolls his eyes. "I'm _trying_ to ask you to ask me to the dance."

I blink in stunned silence.

"You know, by this time most girls are swooning and jumping into my arms."

"It has been five seconds."

"I'm aware."

"Damon—I would love to ask you to the dance. God, I must be on drugs or something."

He chuckles. "Again, not the normal response, but I'll take it."

And then he kisses me. Much like the way I've grown to expect from him during a commercial break or cease-fire on our ongoing pillow wars. Sudden and swift. The kind of kiss that catches me off guard, one that somehow lingers long after it's over.

"… but I don't really feel like going to a dance right now. Can we have a movie night instead?"

"You want to miss out on your last chance to go to a Sadie Hawkins dance with me?" he feigns disappointment.

"You say that like there was an _us_ every other year. Besides, you have more than enough time to try and convince me to go with you to prom."

He stomps his foot childishly. "You suck!"

"You wish." I say sarcastically.

"This isn't over with, Bennett. You _will_ dance with me."

"You hate school-organized events."

"I hate being rejected even more." Damon counters.

I giggle—I can't stop myself. The fake expression of hurt is hilarious. "I'm not rejecting _you;_ I'm rejecting your _idea_."

"Feels like the same thing to me," he mutters.

I stand on my tiptoes, kissing him on the cheek. "It isn't."

He wraps his arms around me, enveloping me in a hug.

When he pulls away, I'm once again speechless. "I'll see you later, Bon Bon." And then he saunters down the hallway toward Mr. Saltzman's history class.

I can feel the smile spreading across my face. Who would have guessed that Damon Salvatore and I would ever become this close?

* * *

On Friday afternoon, I head over to Elena's house. The three of us decided to meet there after school. After my last class, I went straight there, not bothering to stop at my own house. I don't particularly feel like listening to Dad make comments about how let down he feels by my current actions and choices, how my college acceptance letters should be arriving sooner than I think.

Jeremy answers the door before I even get a chance to ring the bell.

He is dressed in black pants and a button-down shirt. His anxious expression turns into a small grin when he sees me.

"Bonnie! I thought you were Anna." His smile turns sheepish.

"Disappointed?" I raise an eyebrow accusingly.

He laughs at my attempt of seriousness. "Only a little bit."

Jeremy is Elena's younger brother, aged fifteen. Elena used to swear he had a crush on me because I'm the one that talked her into letting him play with us when we were kids. Thankfully, he has had his eye on one of his fellow sophomores, Anna Zhu. Otherwise known as my stand-in on the cheer squad. Anna had rejected his invitation to the Homecoming dance (she said she wanted to focus on practicing her routines) but had been more than happy to go out to dinner with him the following week. And the following weeks as well. According to Elena, he walked around the house with a lovesick smile on his face after Anna asked him to this dance.

"Well, I'm always overjoyed to see you, Jer."

He doesn't answer me. Jeremy goes from making eye contact with me to looking over my shoulder. Anna is making her way up the driveway. She looks pretty—hair pulled back and a huge grin on her face.

I step aside so she can see Jeremy.

A look of pure adoration crosses her features.

I tell them to have a great night, reminding them both that they are incredibly lucky to have each other, and go to Elena's bedroom.

She is sitting at her vanity, applying mascara to her lashes. Caroline is stepping into her heels. I go and lay on Elena's bed, kicking my shoes off and propping my feet up on the pile of blankets at the foot of her mattress.

There is an air of joy surrounding my friends. I feel content. I never ended up asking Damon to go to the Sadie Hawkins dance with me. His ploy didn't sway me and neither did Caroline and Elena's. I hadn't seen the point. Over the course of his high school career, he hasn't gone to a single after school event. I can't imagine that he'd truly want to deviate from that now. I'm half-convinced that his asking of me to ask him was another conspiracy theory between him and my more devious friend. So, when I get home, I'm going to rent a movie and eat popcorn, hoping that my parents will be otherwise occupied, and Damon won't complain about my film selection.

"Would you mind driving us to Stefan's house?"

It takes me a moment to realize Elena is speaking to me.

"It's just that my car doesn't have enough gas to get Care and I there."

"My car needs an oil change," Caroline chimes in.

My first instinct is to remind them that the Salvatore's home is within walking distance—like most places in Mystic Falls—but I change my mind at the last second. "Sure. I can do that."

"You're the best, Bonnie!"

"Tell me something I don't know." I say, fishing my keys from my pocket. "Elena gets shotgun—you don't get to complain about my music choices, Care."

She opens her mouth to protest but closes it when Elena comes over to high-five me. I think she's just glad we can be in the same room again. "Fine."

That doesn't stop her from making snarky and/or childish comments en route to the Salvatore reference, voice barely audible over my Adele CD.

"Come on, Bonnie!" Caroline whines as I pull into the driveway. "We just want you to take one picture for us."

"I know you, Care. It's _never_ just one picture with you."

Pretty please?" She clasps her hands together. "With a cherry on top?"

I sigh in defeat. "Okay… okay… I'll do it."

They practically drag me up the perfectly manicured yard and through the front doors—they don't even bother to knock. And to top it off, the foyer is empty. I don't see Stefan or Tyler. No Damon or Mr. Salvatore either.

"I can't take pictures if nobody is here." I fold my arms across my chest and tap my foot.

"We should check upstairs!" says Elena, as if it's the most ingenious plan ever.

"That's intrusive."

Apparently, I signed over my free will when I crossed the threshold, because they lead me up the staircase despite my protests. They pull me down the hallway and past several tables covered in lace tablecloths and vases of flowers. We stop at the last door. It has a sign with my name on it.

Elena opens it. It reveals a room that is clearly Damon's. There is his giant bed smack-dab in the middle and I can see that signature jacket lying on his desk chair. When I look to my immediate left I see my new dress hanging on his closet door.

"Did Damon break into my house?" I jab my finger at the offending outfit.

"No, we did." Says Caroline.

Elena shoots her a look. "Your parents let us in."

"I don't want to be stared at."

"We know. " Elena assures me. "We aren't going to the school. We are going out in the backyard. Just get ready."

"Okay…" I say cautiously.

They leave the room and I find myself slipping the dress on. I don't really know what to think. I'm not mad… but there is a knot in the pit of my stomach that won't go away. Thankfully, I actually did my hair before school this morning. My makeup bag is sitting on Damon's dresser. I fix a few smudges and reapply my lip gloss. I throw the flats Elena and Caroline brought for me on my feet and leave the room.

Damon is standing right by the sliding glass door. The backyard is decorated beautifully. Tea lights are strung from the trees. The gazebo is also decked out in them. There is a long table off to the side. It's covered with a white tablecloth and all of my favorite foods. Iced tea and lemonade are inside of two mason jars. A little dance floor sits in the middle of the yard. A soft song is playing on an iPhone that is docked on a set of speakers.

Elena, Stefan, Caroline, and Tyler are conversing by the gazebo. When I exit the house, Damon extends his hand in my direction. I take it immediately. I appraise him. He's wearing a black dress shirt and pants.

"You clean up nice," he says with a slight smile.

"I could say the same about you," I reply. "Did you do all of this?"

"They helped a little bit." He nods at his brother and my best friends.

"Thank you!" I call over to them. I turn to Damon. "And thank you." I kiss him on the cheek.

"Don't mention it."

"I wouldn't want your manly reputation ruined."

"My thoughts exactly." He hugs me and I rest my head on his chest.

I look up at him. "Damon…"

He meets my eyes. "Don't worry about anything right now. I'm not. Just enjoy tonight."

I sigh, but I also know he makes a point. Soon, there won't be any time for makeshift dances or late-night movies or onion ring runs.

For once, I have no problem listening to Damon.


	25. Louisa

* * *

**~Chapter Twenty-Three~**

* * *

_I feel alive when I'm with you, baby.  
So tell me that I won't ever be lonely again.  
Don't wanna die, I wanna wander the world with you  
and no one else for the rest of my days on this earth_

_~Lord Huron, Louisa~_

* * *

_See you at five._

The message he sent me sits open on my laptop screen.

Damon finally asked me out. Not that we haven't done things before… but this is _different._ There's intent behind it.

It happened a few days ago, when I was hanging out with Elena and Caroline—against my will, mind you—at the mall.

_~~X~~_

" _Care—Cinnabon doesn't smell as wonderful as I remember it, why must you torture me?"_

" _I'll be done in a second—promise!" she shoved the last bite in her mouth and discarded the wrapper in the nearest trash can._

_I collapsed at the first empty table I saw. Elena joins me, placing her shopping bags atop the sticky counter. "Are you guy really sure you don't mind if Damon and Stefan meet up with us._

_Care and I exchanged an eye-roll._ Yes, we kind of did. _This was supposed to be a girl's only outing. Don't get me wrong, I was happy that she patched things up with them, but that doesn't mean they get an invite everywhere we go._

 _It didn't matter that Damon and I no longer wanted to kill each other, that we have fun together. He_ is not _a good shopping partner. He's whiny and critical—he can't help himself._

_Or so he said._

"… _no, but only if Bonnie turns into a stammering, blushing mess when she sees Damon."_

" _Care!"_

" _Don't look all innocent—you_ know _it's true!"_

_My gaze wandered to Elena, who had suggested that I ask him to the dance, who seemed okay with Damon and I being whatever we were. It was a slow transition, but I was finally beginning to believe it was going to stay._

" _You kind of do…" Elena said with a shrug. "It's cute—some of the time."_

_I shot her a glare. The crowd in the food court was scattering. Huge gaps stuck out like sore thumbs until only a family of five remained in the area—in line at Subway._

_Well, including the Salvatore brothers, who were making a beeline for us._

" _Bonnie!" Damon called, cupping his hand over his mouth. "Marco!"_

" _Polo!" I shouted back. It was a reflexive response, but Caroline raised her eyebrows, a nonverbal I told you so, as Elena elbowed me in the ribs._

" _Hey Barbie, Judgy," Damon looked at the former girl of his dreams, his vision of her soured. They may have reconciled, but I haven't caught him staring longingly at Elena lately. "Knockoff Judgy."_

" _Very funny, Damon." Elena said, voice flat._

" _Damon," his little brother chastised. "Can't we all get along?"_

" _Have you been listening to Bonnie's CDs?" he asked Stefan. "That's the kind of happy-go-lucky thing I'd hear playing in her car."_

" _Just stop being an ass," was Stef's reply._

" _I'd be delighted to," Damon's tone was haughty. "But only if Bon Bon will allow me to escort her on a surprise date."_

" _Date?" I repeated, dumbfounded._

" _That's what I said."_

" _Like… a romantic date?"_

_He laughed. "Is there another kind?"_

" _Uh, sure, I'd like that."_

" _Good—so would I. I was beginning to think you only wanted me for my body."_

_Elena choked on her smoothie._

_Caroline yelled, "knew it," at the top of her lungs._

" _Damon!"_

" _Yes?"_

" _I can't believe you!"_

" _Sorry—I just wanted to be sure you liked me, liked me." he wiggled his eyebrows._

" _You're insane!" I exclaimed._

" _About you, Bon Bon. Only about you."_

" _And a million other things," I countered, raising an eyebrow. There wasn't really an argument for my comeback—I'm right. And he knew it._

_Damon nodded slowly and I could practically see the gears turning in his head. "This is a once in a lifetime chance, Bennett. I don't go on dates."_

" _I already said I'd go. That'd I'd be happy to, as a matter of fact. Are you insinuating that I'm going to have the worst night of my life?"_

" _No, I'm saying that you'll have the best night of your life. Wait—no, the_ second-best _night of your life."_

" _Scientists should study your brain for abnormalities." I quipped, staving off the urge to look away._

" _Bon," Care began, and the way she talked told me she had something up her sleeve. Thank God for our shared love of bantering with Damon. "It'd be cruel and unusual punishment to subject anyone to that."_

" _She's right," Stefan added, slinging an arm around Elena's shoulder._

" _Rude," Damon snipped._

" _You can prove us wrong by getting me an order of onion rings," I suggested._

" _Fine—but I'm doing it because I_ care. _I'm getting sick of eating those things. Come to think of it, so do you."_

_This was true, but I was going to worry about that later. That was how I was approaching everything else on my plate._

_~~X~~_

I have spent a total of two hours trying to find something to wear. I'm not proud of it, but I can admit that I want to look perfect. I want to impress Damon. I almost can't wrap my head around the concept.

It's almost trippier than the fact I'm going on a date "date" with him, that this unspoken bond we have is actually romantic.

That I love him in a way I've yet to experience until now.

 _Not_ that I'm going to say it. Some things are best kept to oneself.

I survey my bedroom. The entirety of my closet has exploded on my bed. Caroline barely has any room to sit there and Elena has moved over to my desk chair. The dresses that don't fit me anymore have been thrown in a discard pile on the floor. The ones that could be passable are on the floor in front of my bed. There aren't nearly as many in this category, but they still cover the plush, white throw rug under my bed.

"This is useless!" I throw my hands up in exasperation. "I look like a whale!"

"Bonnie, you do not look like a whale." Care says.

Elena smiles at me sympathetically. "You look great in that."

I look at myself in the mirror. My long, black hair is straightened and a piece in the front is pinned to the side by an ornate silver hair clip. A billowy green dress is draped over my body. It stops about half an inch above my knees. It has long bell sleeves, which was the reason I purchased it in the first place. The torso is a little tight, but not unbearably so.

"I guess this works," I go over to my bed and begin to collect the mountain of clothes I threw there. I place each garment on a hanger and lug them back to my closet.

Elena scoots over to me in the desk chair. Once my hands are free she takes them in hers. "Everything is going to go perfectly, Bon. I know because I've never seen Damon this invested in… well, quite literally anything. Even Stefan agrees."

I see conflict in her eyes, but she does her best to keep it at bay. "Thanks, Elena. I really appreciate it."

Caroline hops off my bed and pulls the both of us in a hug. "I'm so glad you guys worked things out!"

"Me too."

"Me three."

And then the doorbell rings.

I hurry over to the only pair of shoes that fit—you know, besides my moccasins and even they were starting to feel small. I run over to the door. Originally, I wanted to be downstairs and ready to go as soon as Damon's car pulled up, as my Dad said he would be going into work later. I thought it would be best to minimize the amount of contact Damon had with my father—he wasn't a happy camper when I told him I'd be out with the guy who got me pregnant—but I could already hear the front door opening. I crack my bedroom door slightly, hoping to hear their interaction better.

"Hello, Mr. Bennett. I'm Damon Salvatore and I'm here to take Bonnie out."

 _Wow, a polite_ _introduction. Maybe miracles_ do _happen_.

"I know who you are." _Never mind_.

 _Awkward silence_.

"I apologize for everything that's happened… sir." The words sound foreign coming from Damon.

"Uh huh." My father grunts skeptically. "We will see about that. I certainly hope you guys are going to have a very frank discussion about everything. For some unknown reason, my daughter is acting like she wants to become a mother at eighteen. And—against my advice—she insists that she can do everything she originally planned on. You better help her do that, son."

 _Except for the Ivy League school and biophysics degree… but I haven't fessed up to that yet._ Talking and Dad are two concepts that haven't been mixing well since the fallout.

"I don't intend on letting her down." I can hear the sincerity in his voice. "Your daughter is special, and I only wish I realized it earlier."

On that note, I leave my bedroom and head down the steps.

"Damon." I give him a slight nod.

"Bonnie." He holds his arm out. "Are you ready to go?"

I smile. "I am. Let's get out of here."

* * *

Damon takes me to the park.

He has planned a picnic. He secures us one of the few tables available underneath a pavilion. He lays a red-and-white checked blanket over the counter, places a basket and a vase of fake flowers in the center. I'm impressed. I don't know what I expected, but I'm pleasantly surprised.

"Do you do this for all your dates?"

"I told you—I don't really go on dates."

I do my best to mimic his smug expression. "Aww did you do something _special_ for me?"

"It was the only thing I could think of on such short notice. I know you were just _dying_ to go out with me."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Salvatore."

I take a seat on the bench. Damon pulls out two plates, spoons, forks, and napkins from the picnic basket. He seemed to have packed most of the grocery store into it. Fresh fruit, vegetables, pudding cups, potato chips, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. He hands me the bag with the sandwich, and I notice that he's written my name on it in all uppercase letters—with a sloppily drawn heart around it.

I can't suppress the smile that's spreading across my face. "This is really sweet. You even remembered that I told you I couldn't eat lunch meat."

"You didn't tell me that," he protests, "Google did."

"So, you took precious time out of your day to Google something on my behalf?"

"You act like I walked across a bed of nails for you." He shakes his head and smiles deviously. "I was already on the computer looking at porn. So, I figured I'd do something generous—that's the kind of man I am—a giver."

My face screws up in disgust. "You just gave me the urge to vomit."

"Hey, my sandwiches aren't _that_ bad."

"If I wanted to know what you did on the internet, I would have asked you."

Damon shrugs casually. "I'm just being an honest communicator. Isn't that what we're supposed to be?"

I shake my head and take a bite of my PB and J. "You're…incorrigible, Damon."

"I know." He takes a strawberry from my plate. "It's one of my many endearing qualities."

I stare at him with narrowed eyes. "You can be cute—sometimes."

He beams in return.

"… So… not that I _want_ to be a buzzkill, but have you looked any more into what you need to do?"

"I thought about it when we were on the way back from the clinic. And every day after that. When we finally got on the same page, I decided you weren't going to blow me out of the water. I don't want my child to think I'm a loser—especially because her mother is a genius. Turns out when you have insomnia and access to Google you can accomplish anything."

"You have a Google addiction," I tease.

"It's one of the better ones," he retorts.

I look down at the table in an attempt to hide my giddiness. "You're full of surprises tonight."

"Don't get used to it," he says sarcastically. "This is my good deed for the year."

"Somehow I doubt that."

Damon looks up at the sky pensively. "Eh—you're right. I have one more surprise. But that's it."

"Consider me intrigued."

After we clear everything off the table, Damon grabs my hand and leads me down a winding path. Trees line either side, giving the park a somewhat spooky vibe. The fallen leaves crunch under our feet and when one of us steps on a twig I jump. The only other sound is the chirping of crickets. Usually, I would enjoy the eeriness, but I've been feeling so neurotic that I can't appreciate the need for alertness or the quietness of the night.

We stop in the center of the park. Right where the marble fountain is located. The water is streaming down in a peaceful curtain. I peer over the lip of the basin and see a layer of silver coins on the bottom. I think about all of the children, lovers, and dreamers that have tossed change in the hopes of their greatest wishes coming true. I wonder how many of them actually did.

I turn around when Damon taps me on the shoulder.

"Here," he tosses me a quarter. I catch it, but just barely. "Make a wish and make it a good one."

I close my eyes and clutch the coin to my chest. I consider what to wish for. A perfect life? A healthy baby? Acceptance from our respective fathers? And then it comes to me: I should wish for happiness. Over the past few months, I've started to accept that perfection—at least in the way I viewed it—is unachievable. Life has twists and turns and you have to be willing to ride it out. And, well, if the baby weren't healthy, I don't think I could ever experience happiness—in any form—again. So, I wish for the one emotion that will cover all the bases.

The coin lands in the fountain with a _splash_.

I reach into my clutch and grab at the pile of loose change on the bottom. I fish out a dime. My fingers close around it and I turn to Damon.

"Here," I hold my fist up, dropping the money into his open palm. "Your turn." I guide his hand closed, placing his fist over his heart.

He chucks it into the fountain immediately.

"You didn't even make a wish," I accuse. "You didn't even think about it!"

Damon shrugs nonchalantly. "I already knew what I wanted."

"What is it?"

"That's for me to know and you to find out."

* * *

Later, a few weeks after Damon and I made our status as a couple obvious to the entire student body, we are sitting in his Camaro, listening to an audiobook. Well, we _were_ listening to one, but Damon can be very persuasive and equally distracting.

Or maybe I'm just an emotional wrecking ball.

It's probably a mixture of both.

_Tap, tap, tap._

The noise is so sudden and loud that I nearly hit my head on the window in my attempt to extricate myself from Damon.

Peering at me through the glass is none other than Mr. Salvatore.

"Damon, I hate to interrupt, but I need you to run some errands. And before you say anything, no, your brother can't go—he's busy." Mr. Salvatore says after I've rolled the window down.

I knew Giuseppe Salvatore was indifferent to most of Damon's antics, but I hadn't known the exact level of coldness he treated his eldest son with. I see it now and I'm beginning to understand why Damon doesn't respect his father. The older man's eyes are the same mesmerizing shade of blue as Damon's, but they are flat… displaying no sign of emotion. His face is lined with creases, making him seem a lot older than he actually is. He looks like the kind of guy who may have been happy at one time but has completely forgotten what that actually feel like.

"I'm kind of in the middle of something, _dad._ " The frustration Damon is exhibiting is palpable. I can cut the tension in the air with a knife.

I throw Damon an encouraging smile, nudging him in the arm. I hope he receives the message I am trying to send _we should probably tell him now. Let's get this over with._

He glances back at me and rolls his eyes. "As much as I'd _love_ to run around the town square and pick up the things you are fully capable of getting yourself… we actually need to talk with you."

_"We?"_

Damon grabs my hand. "Yup. Hey, at least your hearing is still good old man. No hearing aids yet."

"What could you and… your new girlfriend possibly need to talk to me about." I don't miss the note of disdain in his voice.

I try to give Mr. Salvatore a warm smile. "It really is important, sir—and I'm not…" I trail off. I'd gotten so accustomed to saying otherwise that my response is automatic. "I _am_ Damon's girlfriend."

"Wow, Damon you could learn a thing or two from this one. Much more polite than the last girl you chose to waste your time with." He turns around and throws a look over his shoulder. "You can follow me… and Miss—"

"Bennett," I supply. "Bonnie Bennett."

"With _that_ display of affection, I'd hope you were my son's girlfriend. I'm glad I was right."

"Noted and thank you." I say, feeling the blood rush to my cheeks.

When Mr. Salvatore reaches the front porch, Damon shoots me a look that says: _good going,_ in a way that certainly doesn't mean good going. "You shouldn't have said that."

"Said what?"

"That it was important." When I raise my eyebrows questioningly, he elaborates. "The old guy is jaded. He's not going to like that I'm making out with a new girlfriend who has something to tell him. I usually don't care enough for anyone other than you to meet my dad. Actually—I'm throwing you to the wolves. Sorry. It's going to be _just great_ when he finds out you happen to be the mother of my child."

"Well… he didn't believe me. At least, it didn't sound like he did..."

"… It's still a nail in our coffin."

"I'm sorry."

Signature Damon smirk. "Don't be. He likes you—way better than he likes me." He pauses, eyes wandering over my whole body. "You might want to put this on." He hands me his jacket.

I suddenly feel very self-conscious. "It's that noticeable?"

"It's not a bad thing. You still look like you, but we should just cover our bases… don't want him to suspect anything before I can tell him."

"Before _we_ tell him."

"Look, I appreciate the back-up, but he's going to blame one of us and it won't be you." I don't like the sadness I see in Damon's eyes, but I can't think of anything to say that will fix it, so I just tighten my grip on his hand.

We get out of the car. Damon helps me put his coat on. I try to walk as slowly as I can because it feels like we have committed some abhorrent crime and we are headed to the guillotine. As we are standing at the door, I get the impression we are about to enter the lion's den.

_~~X~~_

The inside of the house is just as fancy as the outside. The first thing anyone notices upon entering the living room is a huge photograph of the Salvatore family when Damon and Stefan were very young. Stefan had been just a baby, Damon an unsurprisingly cute toddler. Their mother is absolutely beautiful. Long, dark brown hair and hazel eyes. She looked happy and so did Mr. Salvatore.

I've spent many hours here and the extravagance in which the household is decked out in never fails to surprise me. I could spend months in this very spot, leave, and return and my reaction would be the same as it was when I first visited.

Awestruck and dumbfounded.

The furniture in the living room looks very expensive. A white leather sectional sits in the middle of the room, accompanied by a matching ottoman. In front of the couch is a large cherrywood coffee table with various lifestyles books neatly stacked upon it. Mounted on the wall is the biggest flat screen television I've ever seen. Underneath that, there is an ornate fireplace made of marble and cherrywood.

I loved that TV more than I'd like to admit. Damon said it was their Father's Day gift to Giuseppe and I can tell the older man had no part in selecting it. It's not as dated as most things in the room.

I'm wondering what it must have been like to grow up with everything you could possibly want but to not have any guidance or warmth when Mr. Salvatore clears his throat. "So, what is it that you want to discuss—it must be a life-or-death situation for you to refuse going to the grocery store?"

"I got Bonnie pregnant." Damon says casually. I hadn't expected him to rip the band-aid off so quickly.

"I see." Mr. Salvatore says. His face doesn't betray him. I can't tell if he's mad, sad, or disappointed. "And you must want money to…take care of it."

"Nope." Damon says and he sounds positively gleeful.

"No?"

"We are keeping her."

"Her?"

"Congrats Grandpa! You have a granddaughter!" Damon's delight is nerve-wracking.

That's when Giuseppe gets a little wordy, though his facial expression remains stagnant. "You've got to be joking, Damon. That's the most irresponsible, idiotic thing I've ever heard you suggest."

I collapse on the sofa. And I sit there silently. Just thinking. This conversation is very similar to the one I had with my own father. Who has only just recently stopped looking at me like I sold his kidney on the black market. I realize just how lucky I am to have my mother, who has done everything in her power to guide me through the mess I've made of my life. I don't want my daughter to feel as though she's a mistake, which she will if she has to spend any time with her paternal grandfather.

"Okay, Damon. This has gone on long enough. You can say 'gotcha' now."

"No can do. This is real and it's happening, whether you like it or not."

"Why?" Giuseppe is stone-faced. "You'd be throwing your life away—not that you had much to look forward to."

I flinch. That jab was brutal.

"See that's exactly it—I do have something to look forward to now. And I'm not going to fuck up my kid's life the way you did ours!"

"How very… valiant of you, son."

"I thought so."

"And what are your plans?"

"We're working on them."

"By kissing in your car?"

There's that defiant gleam in Damon's eyes. "I thought it was a good start."

"That isn't shocking."

I'm befuddled. Mr. Salvatore has yet to display any real emotion. I figured there might be some resignation by this point, but Damon hadn't been exaggeration his depiction of his dad.

"Well, son, I'm not going to hold your hand and walk you through this. You made the error, you fix it. And I expect you to have some semblance of a solution _soon._ Your mother would be ashamed that your playing games in such a serious situation."

 _That_ hit Damon where it hurt. His smirk falters and he doesn't have a witty retort.

"Is there anything else you wish to tell me? Are you hooked on drugs, too? Breaking any other laws?"

"No," he chokes out weakly.

"Thank _God._ The shopping list is on the fridge. Be back by dinnertime."

And then his father goes into the foyer. I can hear his footsteps pounding against the stairs. And then a door slams, making me jump. Damon approaches me and sits down, putting an arm around my shoulder. I lean in to him and take a deep breath. I'm comforted by his smell, a mixture of soap and fabric softener. It's not enough, though. Listening to that exchange had been terrible and I feel guilty for not truly understanding the magnitude of Giuseppe's rigidity.

"I'm sorry," I say after a moment. "Your dad sucks."

Damon snorts. "And that went better than I expected."

"Uh… that's… nice to hear—I guess." I hesitate, unsure of how to articulate my next thought. "I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to make things worse."

"You didn't. He's been looking for an excuse to use that line for years."

"Still—"

"Don't sweat it, Bon Bon. My back-up idea is a guarantee."

"Back-up plan?"

"I could be a male model, make millions, live in a penthouse. You could visit when you want, as long as I'm not busy signing autographs for my adoring female fans."

I roll my eyes. "I'm not even going to dignify that with a response."

"You just did." Damon points out.

"Whatever."

"I bet I could even sell my underwear online for a hefty price. I'm a heartthrob."

"I don't think so!" I say quickly, a little too quickly.

Damon smiles like the Cheshire Cat. "Aww, is my little Bon Bon worried about other women?"

I frown, pulling my legs onto the couch, tucking them under me. "No."

"Sounds a little like a _yes_ to me. But hey, when I'm famous, you'll be sorry. Right now, is the perfect opportunity to stake your claim."

"Did you want me to?" I look up at him expectantly.

"Maybe…"

"Okay, and how should I do that? I actually thought I already did. In the car. Twenty minutes ago. Oh, and at school…"

"Do it again. But this time, talk about how amazing I am. Ignore my cell phone. I'm only going to record it for posterity."

"You are so difficult." I say, sitting up.

"Your point?"

"I like you. A lot. Isn't that enough?"

"For now," Damon concedes. "But a foot rub would really reinforce that point."

"Awesome. My feet hurt." I shift my legs, so they are resting across his lap. "You're a doll."

"Well, since you seem so excited about it, sure. I'll humor you.

" _You'll_ humor _me_?"

"Uh huh."

" _I'll_ humor _you_!"

"You are the one insisted I massage _your gross feet_." He reminds me. "Silly, Bon Bon. It looks like your hormones are going to your brain." He pats the crown of my head.

"Whatever, Salvatore! Just be at my house tomorrow. Seven o' clock."

"Why?"

"So, we can sit down with all three of our parents and present them with our Plan A."

"Boo—I think I like my Plan B better."

"Too bad. I liked your original one—don't be late."

"I wouldn't dare."

I swing my feet onto the ground and prepare to leave. I take the jacket off and hand it to him. "Bye, Damon."

"See you tomorrow!"


	26. Stand Your Ground

* * *

**~Chapter Twenty-Four~**

* * *

_The only way to find true happiness is to risk being completely cut open._

_~Chuck Palahniuk~_

* * *

Things haven't been easy lately.

Dad has been irritable, Mom's been awkwardly trying to keep the tension to a minimum, I have a semi-working plan that involves doing exactly what I want, and I'm anxious about the after-school meeting with our dads and my mom.

And then Mr. Saltzman has just reminded me of the talk we had a while ago—the one where he asked me if I could convince my mom to let us hold an informational night at her place of work.

I really shouldn't have agreed to help him out.

I'm kicking myself for trying to play Wonder Woman once again. _The word is no, Bonnie and you need to learn it._

But I already dug myself into a hole, something I only remember when my teacher approaches me in the hallway, nervous grin wavering slightly when we make eye contact.

 _Crap._ I flash back to the conversation we had last month and am hit with the realization that he is coming to collect on a promise that I am not able to fulfill. I wonder if he let his teacherly responsibilities slip his mind—it certainly looks that way with the jittery manner in which he is moving.

I close my locker door. "Hi, Mr. Saltzman!"

"Bonnie," he beams. "How are you doing?"

"Fine," I answer, though that isn't entirely true. I feel guilty because he stood up for me when he heard the rude comments his colleagues were making. But does that obligate me to spearhead his project?

_Probably._

"Have you spoken to your mother about the history night?"

I hesitate, unsure of what to say. "… no, Mr. Saltzman. I'm sorry. It's been a stressful few weeks."

"Oh," his face falls. "I see."

"… I really am sorry. The exhibition got pushed back," a lie, but it's the only excuse I could come up with. "I can't help you with the venue."

"Alright," he says, but it's clear he doesn't mean it.

"The gymnasium would be a good substitute."

"Would you be willing to help organize it still?" he's hopeful.

I bite my lip. I'm going to have to start practicing my assertiveness soon if I want to have a snowball's chance in hell of selling my idea to three very stubborn people. "No, I can't. I'm sorry… I really am I should have never said I could help… I've got a lot going on right now."

"I understand," says Mr. Saltzman, but he looks crestfallen.

I ignore the emotional pull, the tugging in my chest, urging me to recant. "Thank you. I really am. I know some freshman that are trying to get on the dance committee, I'm sure they'd be willing to help."

"Good thinking. I'll look into it."

I nod.

The guilt isn't as overwhelming as it usually is. Actually, it feels like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I _can_ put my feelings into words. I _will_ be able to do so when it comes time for me to voice my thoughts.

I'm still on this high when I meet up with Caroline and Elena.

Care scans my face. "You look… not stressed."

"I did it," I tell them excitedly.

"Did what?" Elena asks. "Are you alright? Do you need to go to the nurse?" I get déjà vu when she touches my cheek with the back of her hand.

"No!" I cheer. "And that's what I did—told someone no!"

"Who, what, when, where, and why?" Care inquires. She doesn't believe me, which I guess I can understand, as I don't often turn away anyone who needs help.

"Mr. Saltzman, he wanted me to plan a history night, at my mom's museum, and because I have more important things to do."

"Alright!" she gives me a high-five. "Look at you, you're putting yourself first for once!"

"I am. I'm also going to put my foot down with Rudy and Abby—I'm going to go to Whitmore and I'm _not_ going to torture myself with multiple chemistry courses!"

Caroline's curls bounce up and down as she jumps and squeals happily. "You're going to be with us?"

"If I can pull everything off, then yeah. It's what I want."

She nearly tackles me when she pulls me in a tight hug. Elena joins in, but thankfully she's not nearly as over-zealous.

"It'll be good for us," the brunette says with total conviction.

"Hell, yeah it will!"

"Do you think they'll go for it?"

I sigh. "No, but I'm not going to give them much of a choice. I've got to get some paperwork together and I'll apply for a scholarship… join the dance team. Hopefully, I won't _actually need_ their approval. If I can cover the majority of the cost, I won't need the help."

"You and Damon are really doing this?" Elena asks, and while she doesn't seem overjoyed by the prospect, she doesn't sound all that upset either.

"Yeah, I think so. Well, it'll be mainly me when he leaves…" the thought genuinely terrifies me, but there aren't many options that will give me what I really want, and I won't always be alone…. And, it'll be hard, but it'll get less difficult with time.

I hope.

"Well, she won't just have Damon for support—I fully intend to spoil our niece."

Elena smiles in spite of herself. "Me, too."

"Thank you… both of you," I make sure to give Elena an extra nod (just so she understands how much that means coming from her).

"You're welcome," Caroline says as she shoves a piece of blush pink cardstock into my hands.

"What's this?" I ask, looking down at it.

It's decorated with rattles and bows, the font a curly script that matches Caroline's loopy handwriting perfectly.

It reads:

 _Baby Shower  
On: January 17th __  
Time: whenever Caroline and Elena get done decorating until all official sleepover rituals have been completed the following day  
Place: Bonnie's bedroom (and yes, there will be a banner hanging above your bed)  
RSVP: there isn't a need—you have _ _**no choice** _ _but to let Caroline and Elena shower you with love  
*No complaints—or else you will have to watch every one of Caroline's favorite movies_

"This invite sounds a little like a threat."

"It is," Caroline says, tone serious despite her jovial facial expression. "And it's two weeks from now; so, no excuses. Your schedule is clear."

"How do you know that?"

"I looked at your phone when you were puking that decaf coffee up yesterday morning."

"First—that's weird and creepy. Second—you made this in a single night?" I wave the card around.

As far as party invitations go, this one is the nicest, most intricate one I've ever seen. Granted, it's only a singular card—I hope, as Caroline tends to overdo it with the party planning (and I wouldn't have put it past her to make Elena her own with personalized instructions attached).

The one I'm holding has a thick, hot pink bow on the top, the rattle adornments are three-dimensional ones that probably took a certain glue type and ratio to stick. The polka-dots and bows look to have been individually cut out and pasted, and the information painstakingly written in a careful hand.

"You know I'm a master with a glue gun."

"A _crazy person_ with a glue gun," I correct.

"I told her she could just text all of that to you, but she wouldn't listen." Elena groans.

"Thank you for trying at least…"

"And, since you want to call me crazy," Care goes on as if Elena never said a word. _"Damon's_ the crazy one. He texts you some weird things… is a Vulcan some kind of convoluted code word for a sex act?"

"No, but sometimes I wish it was." I mutter. "Especially if Chris Pine's got anything to do with it."

"That's _definitely_ dirty," she decides.

"Fine. It's dirty." There's no use in arguing with Caroline Forbes when she makes her mind up.

"Knew it… now are you going to tell us the details or are you going to make me read you every definition on Urban Dictionary?"

"No, it's fine, I'll tell you—I've kept my breakfast down so far. Please don't push it."

"Another win for me!"

"Just wait… you might not think that when I'm done."

"We'll see about that!"

_Well, I'll be seeing about many things today, what's one more gamble?_


	27. Laura

* * *

**~Chapter Twenty-Five~**

* * *

_You say that you're stuck in a pale blue dream  
And your tears feel hot on my bedsheets  
Drape your arms around me and softly say  
Can we dance upon the tables again?_

_~Bat for Lashes, Laura~_

* * *

I toy with a loose thread on one of the blankets Grams had knitted before she passed away. It had actually been one of the few projects she had completed. The only other one had been a scarf she made for me one Christmas. My mother placed it on our couch right after she cleaned out her house. If I close my eyes and take a deep breath, I can almost smell the Bergamot oil scent that used to overtake her home.

I can pretend I'm at her house, drinking tea and chatting about everything that happened over the course of the day.

When I open my eyes, Damon is staring at me strangely. "Are you okay?"

"Just thinking about Grams," I explain. "You know, she was really good at the tough-yet-unconditional love thing—unlike my dad."

"Did your dad even _like_ your grandmother?"

"He thought she was batty, but he loved her. They didn't have the stereotypical in-law relationship if that's what you're asking."

He nods and leans against the back of the sofa. We are waiting for my parents to join us in the living room. And for Damon's father to arrive. When I had asked my mom if the five of us could have a formal discussion about the matter, she gladly agreed. I think she was just relieved that Damon and I were making headway on this whole "adulting" thing. My dad's response had been more of a begrudging affirmative, but that's still more than we can say for Damon's only parental figure, who didn't even want to come when his son invited him. It was only after Damon had phoned me up and _I_ made the request, that Giuseppe agreed to it.

Mom enters the room first, followed by my father, who has his arms crossed over his chest. I believe he's trying to intimidate Damon. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him sit up ramrod straight. Upon closer inspection, though, he doesn't appear frightened. Damon really is unflappable. I don't know how well this will bode for our talk, but at least one of us isn't drowning in a sea of uncertainty and shame.

As if they had it planned to the very second, the doorbell chimes, and I know Mr. Salvatore is here. I excuse myself, let him in, and bring him into the living room.

He takes a seat on the armchair across from Damon, only sparing a glance in his direction.

Giuseppe's attention is on my mom and dad. He shakes each of their hands. "I'm Giuseppe. Your daughter is wonderful. I'm sorry Damon has acted so carelessly. It's a bad habit of his."

"Apparently it's one of Bonnie's, too." Dad says gruffly.

I clear my throat—a reminder that the subjects they are discussing are right in front of them.

Mom cuts in. "It's nice to meet you."

"Likewise." The blue-eyed man says with a nod.

"What is it you want to discuss, Bonnie Shelia?" I don't know how Dad manages to make my first and middle name sound like swear words, but he does.

"Our plan," I say. I grab Damon's hand. I hope it solidifies the fact that we are a united front.

Dad's eyes flicker to our intertwined fingers and then back up to me. "Oh, so you've finally come up with something. It's only four and a half months in."

Mr. Salvatore raises his eyebrows. "I wasn't aware that this isn't that recent of a development."

"Don't feel too left out. We only found out because _someone_ left her stuff out for us to see."

"Rudy!" My mother says sharply. "You promised me you would hear them out! _Without_ the extra commentary."

My father's expression softens at Mom's interjection.

I use his moment of silence to continue talking. "I figured out what to do about college." I gulp. This is the hard part. "I'm not going to continue applying to the schools you guys suggested. I want to go to Whitmore. If I keep my grades up, and join a team, I could probably get a full ride. Oh, and I'm not going to do the whole biophysics major. I want to major in anthropology. It's not that big of a jump—it's still a science-based program."

My father's mouth is agape, my mother looks confused, Damon's dad leans back into the chair, fingers laced together, considering my plan seriously.

"… you want to give up a successful future for Damon?" he says after a moment.

"No. Not exactly. It's what I've always wanted to do. I just didn't have the guts to say anything before."

"The _guts?"_ My father repeats, aghast.

"Yes, the guts. I had been so scared of disappointing you and Mom, that I was just going to go along with what you wanted. But… since I've done that now, I might as well go all the way with it."

"I didn't work my ass off for you turn around and screw everything up," Dad snaps.

"Neither did I," I struggle to keep my voice steady. "And I'm not going to. I'm researching the cost of utilizing the on-site childcare center."

Rudy snorts derisively. "That makes everything just fine, then, doesn't it?"

"No, but I'm obviously never going to stop trying to make things that way."

"And _his_ plan?"

Giuseppe shifts his body forward. "Yes. I'd _love_ to hear that."

"I want to go into the Army," Damon says, looking straight at my dad.

"That's a lot of work, kid." I've never heard Dad sound so condescending. "Are you sure you can handle that?"

"Yes." And after a beat, "It's what I was going to do originally."

"And you just want to leave my daughter here to do everything by herself?"

"No," Damon replies evenly. "I don't. I do want to make something of myself, though. And this is how I want to do it. I plan on taking my responsibilities seriously, sir."

I jump in before Dad has a chance to answer. "We're asking you guys for support. We want you to know we're taking things very seriously."

It feels odd to be asking—no, _begging_ —for my parents approval. I haven't needed to ask them for much of anything for a long time. I've stuck to the status quo, and they stopped assuming I needed their reassurance. And now, the one time I'm in desperate need of it; it feels like I'm requesting something impossible.

Mom appears torn. She turns to my father and then to Damon and then to me. "What kind of support are you looking for, Bonnie Bear?"

"Your understanding… I want you to accept what I want to do with my life."

"I just don't get why we're hearing about Whitmore now… you've never mentioned it. Not once."

Dad sighs. It's the sound of someone who is frustrated, at the end of their rope. I feel guilty. I'm putting them in a very tough spot. "I don't think she's talking about her education, Abby."

"Well… not really." I don't break eye contact with my mother. It's much easier to address her. "I'm probably going to have to look for someplace to stay closer to the school."

"And you're asking for us to pay for it." Dad states flatly.

"No, I've got money saved… I'll have to work for it… get a part-time job. I _know_ all that. I'm saying I _don't need_ your money. I just need _you."_

Another disgruntled noise from Dad. I can almost see the conflicting feelings jump around his brain. Rumor around town, even before all of the turbulence, was that Giuseppe Salvatore made Damon sleep in the basement and fed him through a crack in the door. Now, this is obviously a bit dramatic, untrue, but my parents look like I've lumped them in with the man sitting next to them.

Once again, I feel like a small child. Asking for much more than they're willing to give.

"Well, why wouldn't you ask for permission to stay here?" Mom sounds hurt.

"I didn't think Dad wanted me around," I answer. I'm shocked at how steady my voice sounds. "He can barely look at me. I don't think it will get any better when there is a screaming baby around."

"I'm not doing a happy dance, Bonnie. You should look into adoption—if you two can't act like grownups, then you are up shit's creek without a paddle. And I really don't want to see your dreams go down the toilet. Neither would your grandmother. You need to be realistic."

"Yes. I did consider it." Granted, I didn't think too long or hard about it, but _he_ doesn't need to know that. "I don't want to do that—I can't."

"Life is full of things we don't want, Bonnie."

"Dad… please? I know I can do this. Let me show you. Give me a chance to prove you wrong."

"I hope so, because after this there are no more second chances." When he stands up to go, there's a note of finality in the air.

Mom looks at me sympathetically. "I need to think about all this, honey. And Damon, my brother is in the Army— I'll give you his contact info. He can give you advice."

"Thank you,"

She nods. "Giuseppe, would you like to join my husband and I for coffee? I think we're all in the same boat here."

"Of course, that sounds lovely."

We are alone once again. I realize I haven't let go of Damon's hand yet.

"We can do this," I state confidently. I don't see any doubt on his face. I love being right, but I've never felt so desperate to be in my entire life.

* * *

I think I'm falling in love with Damon Salvatore.

It's a realization that has snuck up on me.

The notion slips into my thoughts when I'm almost asleep, flows into my dreams, stays with me long after I've awakened. It occurs to me when I find myself watching him as he talks, the way my body feels like a live wire when he touches me.

I can't escape it.

I wanted to, the first few times it happened, because it scared me. I didn't want to end up with a broken heart. Damon has a talent for doing that (and Enzo already did a number on it), but it never dissipated.

So, I've been more accepting of it. Besides, I have a few other problems I should spend more time trying to resolve.

Like how it's becoming obvious that the rumors are true.

We've been in an exclusive relationship for a few months now and it's become apparent to everyone in Mystic Falls that something is up. I can no longer hide beneath large shirts and baggy sweatpants. I've become a sideshow attraction. If I thought the stares a month ago were bad; then I had been sorely mistaken.

The whispers have become louder and I no longer have to guess what is being said about me—people are practically shouting at me as I pass them. I have neither confirmed nor denied the theories, but I don't need to—everyone can _see_ it. Also, the ups and downs of my relationship with Damon make for a juicy story—add to that an unplanned pregnancy in our final year in high school and that's all anyone can talk about. Even the teachers seem to be getting some mileage out of all the gossip. Well, most of them. Mr. Saltzman reminded his co-workers how juvenile they sounded when he realized I overheard two of my AP teachers talking about what a shame my life has become.

I try to push my negative thoughts away as I help Damon on his enlistment to-do list. in his bedroom, taking advantage of the fact that our parents are all at work this weekend. Mr. Salvatore usually has Saturday off, but we lucked out and have the spacious house practically to ourselves.

"Okay," he announces. "Time for a break."

"You've only downloaded one of the forms."

"Yeah, and it took _forever."_

"Twenty minutes of that was just you being distracted on the internet."

"So?"

"Fine, take a break." I check off the steps he's completed in my notebook and shut it.

"I thought you'd see it my way." He joins me on the bed.

"Hey, tell your dad what a good job I'm doing. I want to get in his good graces."

"My dad hates you." I respond flatly.

His expression is over-confident. "I'll win him over—I won _you_ over, didn't I?"

"You did," I admit with uncertainty. "But my father is another story. You got his teenage daughter pregnant."

"You make it sound like a _bad_ thing," he laughs, though that stops abruptly when he sees the look on my face. "Bonnie, I solemnly swear that I really am taking this seriously. I'm trying to come up with something that will prove to you that I'm going to do the best I possibly can."

"… I know, I guess I'm just nervous. And… you're… doing fine" I cover my eyes with my hands.

"Bon, you're rambling again."

I peek at him through a space in my fingers. "It's just a lot, Damon. I'm… never mind."

"Come on, Bon Bon. Use your big girl words."

I glare at him and take a deep breath. I hate having to voice these particular feelings, though this emotion has been eating away at me even when it isn't front and center. "I'm scared."

"The Great Bonnie Bennett is afraid?" He lays down next to me, bringing me into his arms.

"You're not?"

"Eh. Maybe a little. But like I said, I don't want to waste time on maybes. It's… weird. I feel weird."

"This is really weird," I agree, removing my hands from my face. "But not the bad kind of weird I thought it was going to be. I don't understand how you're not scared shitless, though. How do you manage that?"

"I was angry at first," Damon says. "I was mad that I was going to have to give up having fun because the head of the Responsibility Police was going to make me man up—and then you made me think otherwise."

"I didn't know I had that much power over you."

"I didn't know either," says Damon.

And then we are lying nose to nose. Our silence hangs in the air. It's not tense or uncomfortable—it just feels _good._ Calming. I snuggle closer to him. He responds by wrapping both of his arms around me. I try to be more like him, more laid-back and less stressed. Somehow, it's easier to calm down when I'm with Damon. Sure, it only lasts for a little while, but it's nice to get a break from myself.

"Can I kiss you?" Damon asks quietly.

I tilt my head up. "Wow, you're being gentlemanly. I'm impressed."

"I guess you're a good influence."

"You can kiss me," I say softly.

So, he does. And it's nice, sweet, in a way I wasn't expecting. It's akin to the pecks on the cheek he would give me at school. I'm overwhelmed by the feeling of wanting _more_. I press my lips against his harder, my fingers tangling in his hair. I hook my leg around his waist. When we break apart, he is grinning like a cat who ate the canary.

"I must be a very bad influence on you, Bennett."

"Things aren't all good or bad, _Salvatore_ , you taught me that."

"I sound very wise," he says loftily.

"For once," I snort. "Now, why are your clothes still on?"

"Pinch me. Is Bonnie Bennett propositioning me?" He feigns shock.

I make a move to stand up. "If you don't want to, that's fine, too."

"I didn't say that." Damon protests. "I'd be more than happy to be naked in front of you. I'm just surprised that you brought it up."

I back up and begin pulling my arm out of the sleeve of my shirt. I'm absolutely giddy. I can't get out of my clothes fast enough. I don't know what has come over me, my life is changing so much that I can barely keep up. I feel Damon's eyes on me as I'm undressing. Already, this is so much different than before. And when I turn around and look at him, he meets my eyes and then the anxiety hits. What if this is a bad idea? I certainly don't look the same as I did months ago… and then I actually look at his facial expression. He doesn't look repulsed or even cocky. He appears…mesmerized. That takes some of the nerves away.

He takes his own shirt off and I find myself staring at him in a very similar way. It occurs to me that I don't know what I should do next. The last time I found myself in this situation my inhibitions had basically flown out the window. Thankfully, Damon makes the first move. He closes the space between us, and I happily let him take the lead.

I'm surprised at how comfortable I feel in this moment. But before I surrender myself to Damon completely, I wonder how long I will be able to keep all my worries at bay.


	28. Words of Wisdom

* * *

**~Chapter Twenty-Six~**

* * *

_There is no other one that can take your place  
I feel happy inside when I see your face  
I hope you believe me  
Because I speak sincerely  
and I mean it when I tell you I need you_

_~Weezer, My Best Friend~_

* * *

It's January 17th.

And I've come to the conclusion that one of my best friend's is absolutely neurotic.

Why, you ask?

It's because Caroline meant every word of that invitation.

They arrived around ten this morning, snuck into my room, and pinned a banner above the headboard, all without alerting me to their presence.

It's a huge sheet of paper that says: _Bonnie's Baby Shower_ in big, block letters. It's accompanied by a pink-and-white chevron pattern in the background. Caroline must have ordered it before she even made the invitation.

They also sprinkled silver confetti over my bedspread and floor. Little pieces trapped within the fibers of my plush throw rug. Gathered in sparkly piles on the hardwood floor underneath it. And on every possible surface—the desk, dresser, nightstand… it's everywhere. A few gift bags sit in one of the corners.

When I inquired about them, Care informed me I had to wait until later to see what's inside. Oh, and the huge box is so important that I have to wait until the end of the night to look inside.

No peeking or begging them to let the secrets out.

No asking why or telling them they did not have to purchase these items. They _wanted_ to do this. So, I have to suck it up and relax.

Enjoy my night of fun, my baby shower, because I deserve it. I, of course, think the exact opposite. But, like I said, you don't challenge Caroline—especially not about a party. It doesn't help that Elena is firmly on her side about the matter. Usually, she agrees with me. Today I am on my own.

So, as I sit in the kitchen (a room over from where the shower is to be held, I go over my sleepover checklist once more in my head.

_Popcorn: check. Pizza: Care placed an order to be delivered this evening. Sodas: in the fridge. Apple juice: on the shelf below the Pepsi and Sprite._ Because fruit juice lacks one of the things that used to keep me sane, the one thing I relied on to get me through a long night of test prep. Caffeine. I've been trying to wean myself off it, but it's making me miserable. It doesn't help that Damon makes a dramatic show of chugging a bottle of orange soda every day at lunch.

Or that I have to stick to decaf brew on our weekly before-school coffee days.

That I still manage to vomit out fifteen minutes later.

I get a glass of water, sipping it slowly as I eavesdrop on an argument over not buying enough pink balloons, about the blue ones clashing with them, about Caroline's vision being highly specific.

When they call me into the living room, I see that they must've robbed a latex factory to get this many balloons. Some are resting on the floor, while others graze the ceiling. They've decorated a chair with pink streamers and the gifts—excluding the extra-special ones Care pointed out—sit on the coffee table, beside a stack of coasters.

Rachel McAdams and Ryan Gosling's faces are on the TV screen, paused in the middle of the opening credits. I should have known Caroline's movie choice—and vetoed it—the minute she informed me of tonight's slumber party.

I liked _The Notebook_ before I watched it one-thousand times.

Not so much anymore.

My green eyes settle on the two girls standing in the center of the room. Elena's face is concealed by a huge box wrapped in pink paper. Caroline is holding a gift bag filled to the brim with tie-dye tissue paper.

"What are those for?" I ask, playing dumb, hoping they'll say _not you_ even though we all know differently.

"You, silly!" Caroline trills gleefully.

They finally step off to the side. Leaving their own belongings on the floor, stepping over the massive pile with unsteady feet. Well, the unsteadiness is all Elena. Care clears the obstacle easily, as her vision is unobscured.

"The pizza's in the dining room," Mom informs me when she enters, dressed in a skirt, blouse, and heels. "Your father took care of the tip."

Upon hearing his title, Rudy follows his wife into the area.

"Thanks, Dad." I push the lock of hair that fell out of my ponytail behind my ear, trying not to look him in the eyes.

He simply nods in response, and then, "don't mention it." He sounds as though he really means it.

"Now, no wild parties. It's just you three, got it?" Mom is saying that for her husband's benefit, I'm sure.

"Of course not," I assure them. "Have a good time at the movie."

My parents have decided to take the night to "reinvigorate their marriage." This is code for "try to set aside our differing approaches to their only child's teen pregnancy." Things are a bit tense between them, and I've been ignoring it. I also didn't know what to think when Caroline told me that they cleared her idea with Abby and that they wouldn't be home as they planned on having a date night.

"Thank you, sweetie." She says to me. "Have fun, girls!" She calls out to my friends.

"Thank you, Ms. Bennett," they answer in unison.

When they are backing out of the driveway, I turn around. It is time to torment myself with this film. Which, if you ask my blonde-haired friend, is considered a cinematic masterpiece that isn't given enough credit.

And saying anything negative about Ryan Gosling is a cardinal sin in our friendship.

When I reach for the remote, Caroline snatches it.

"Open your presents first," Elena says, leaning over and pushing the box across the table.

"You guys didn't have to do that or any of this. I appreciate it, though." I say. They know I'm not big on presents. Just spending time with them is enough.

"But we did anyway."

I sigh, very carefully removing the lid on the gift box.

"You know, half the reason we get you gifts is to watch your awkward reaction," Caroline quips.

I pretend I don't hear her.

Inside, there is a large, black bag. Twice the size of a normal purse. When I pick it up, I see that there is a pink B embroidered in the middle. It also has many side pockets, of all different sizes. It isn't a handbag, like I originally thought, but a diaper bag. Tears spring to my eyes. This is so sweet and overwhelming. I had known I was going to need something like this, among many other things, but I didn't realize it would make me so emotional.

"Thank you," I murmur, wiping my eyes with my sleeve.

Elena gets up from the armchair and joins me on the sofa, placing a hand on my shoulder. "What's wrong, Bon?"

"What if I can't do this?"

"You can," Elena answers soothingly. "It's Damon everyone's worried about. Not you."

"Yeah," Care chimes in. "You'll be the best mom ever! And a total MILF—now open up your other present!"

The colorful bag is thrust in my hands. I take out each piece of tissue paper and fold it neatly, much to Caroline's dismay.

"You know, half the reason I save this stuff is to watch your reaction," I tell her sarcastically. Also, I can re-use this come Christmas, but that's just a bonus.

I can add a set of bottles to my collection now. Along with a pack of pink onesies and a pair of tiny pink shoes.

After I tell them how grateful I am, we partake in the world's longest group hug. It only disbands when Care decides she can't go a second longer without drooling over her favorite actor's good looks.

"It means a lot," I whisper to Elena.

"I know… and we kind of owed you one. _I_ kind of owed you more than one."

_"Shush!"_

Elena and I have to suppress our giggles. Talking during her favorite movie is the same as betrayal in her book.

"That's it! Next time you pick a movie, it can't be based on a Nicholas Sparks novel."

"I second that," I agree.

Elena only makes it fifteen minutes before she gets up in search of the pizza. She takes her time in the kitchen, returning ten minutes later with three plates. I take mine, picking off all the toppings that will end up giving me heartburn. No pepperoni, sausage, fried onions, or olives for me.

It seems that no matter how hard I press the pause button on my life, it just keeps going and I'm powerless to stop it.

* * *

I wake up late the next morning. The sun is shining through the gauzy curtains. Brightly. My alarm clock reads eleven. I prop myself up on my elbows, searching for Elena, who is no longer laying on the blow-up mattress I set up.

Moments later, she comes into my bedroom, hair wrapped in a towel. She's already dressed in an old pair of jeans and a navy-blue t-shirt. Elena grins at me, heading over to my vanity to apply her make-up.

"Morning," she chirps, rubbing moisturizer on her cheeks.

"Morning," I say, yawning.

"How'd you sleep?" she asks, tossing the towel in my hamper.

"Good—considering I slept next to Caroline."

Care is a crazy sleeper—the worst bed partner I've ever had. She hogs the blankets, is never still, and has a nasty habit of smacking you on the face in the middle of the night.

"I told you it'd be better if she stayed down there," she nods at the spot she ended up with.

"I'll give you that."

Elena turns back to the mirror, suddenly uncomfortable. She fumbles through her bag of toiletries, taking things out, and putting them back in, finally zipping it back up when she no longer has anything to search for.

Then she looks back at me, shoulders squared, determination glinting in her eyes. "Bon?"

"Yeah?"

"I know you said everything is cool… but I don't think it is."

I go over every interaction we've had since we had that dinner with Mehri. I had been firm, had stood my ground, but I told her I was willing to move past our months-long fight. I haven't done or said anything to indicate otherwise… why is she saying this?"

"I told you it was," I say, confused.

She frowns. "I know, but that's the thing… I know you've forgiven me, but—" she takes a deep breath. " _I_ don't feel it is."

"Why?" This still isn't making any sense to me.

"I never actually told you how sorry I am."

No, I don't think she did, but why would that matter now? After all this time has passed since then.

"I wasn't at first—that's why, I think. I was just tired of being at odds with Stefan and Damon. I hated when Care would leave because I knew she was going to see you. And, when Stef told me that he was fed up with… my behavior… _me_ … I thought he was just being dramatic."

She pauses, letting her explanation sink in. I want to tell her to stop, that I don't like what she's saying, that it feels like another slap on the face, but she goes on before I can form the words to say that.

"But then I went home and replayed everything that happened in my head. He told me the only reason that I felt so betrayed was because Damon slept with you and I couldn't be the reason he tried to do better anymore. He said he knew I liked Damon more than I let on, but he loved me too much to let it get in the way of our relationship—until that day. And then… he said he wasn't going to be the second choice anymore…" tears are brimming in her eyes.

"And… and I realized that I didn't _love_ Damon like I do Stef. I was in love with the idea that he was willing to _change_ to impress me. And that isn't… it isn't _real._ Stefan—he's himself and I love him for that—and I am _glad_ he doesn't have the same flaws as Damon... I told him so when I apologized to him and thank _God_ he accepted it. And at dinner… when I saw you two interact, the way Damon looked at you… I was a little sad that he never looked at _me_ like that. Not like he truly loved me. I had come to terms with that, but it wasn't as easy to get over it as I thought it would be… but I'm ready now. I'm sorry, Bon. You've done so much for me our entire lives... the pep talks and how you would always stay with me when my mom and dad fought… and the one time _you_ needed _me;_ I was too selfish to be there."

"Thank you…" I whisper. I'm going to cry any second now, I just know it.

She approaches me slowly, sobbing harder now. I hug her tightly. "… can I still be Aunt Elena?"

"Of course!"

"So, I can finally order the t-shirts?" Care says from behind me.

I say no at the same time Elena says yes.

All three of us dissolve into fits of laughter. Soon, we are crying tears of happiness instead of sorrow. Originally, I had been wary of how a "baby shower" would turn out, but I'm glad Caroline had been so dead set on throwing this party. It had been just what I needed.


	29. Dear Bonnie,

* * *

**~Chapter Twenty-Seven~**

* * *

_No one's wrong,  
no one's right.  
It comes down on you.  
And I have found, your life inside mine._

_~Better Than Ezra, Teenagers~_

* * *

_Dear Miss Bennett,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been admitted to Whitmore University for the upcoming school year! Congratulations! On the behalf of the entire Whitmore community, we want to wish you a very warm welcome!_

_Your academic achievements have given you the opportunity to immerse yourself in all that our institution has to offer. You will be joining a diverse group of students with different interests and talents. Our campus provides our attendees with a well-rounded selection of classes and hands-on opportunities to learn._

_Furthermore, after reviewing your academic transcripts, admission essay, volunteer hours, and extra curriculars, we are delighted to offer you the Mae E. Whitmore scholarship for outstanding academic accomplishments. This scholarship with cover the entire cost of tuition and books as long as you maintain a GPA of at least 3.75 over the course of your tenure at Whitmore University. Please fill out the required paperwork and Financial Aid forms by April 16_ _th_ _in order to take full advantage of this opportunity._

_Please feel free to join us for our new student orientation on August 15_ _th_ _. You will be permitted to move into the dormitory up to a week prior to the first day of the semester. We also recommend that you view our first-year checklist on our website. It will provide you with a list of suggested supplies, textbooks, and a directory of important phone numbers._

_We look forward to seeing you this upcoming Fall!_

_Sincerely,_

_Anne Winger  
Whitmore Dean of Admissions_

I can't suppress the excitement I feel when I read the letter I had received in the mail.

I've been accepted into Whitmore—and it's only midway through January! I had applied for early decision back when I was filling out applications for different schools; before I decided to put my foot down on how I'd be approaching my college experience.

Part of me did it this way because I'd have a logical reason to jump on this opportunity as opposed to waiting on other possibilities. I deliberately waited to send in my Yale application for that reason, but all the convoluted planning had been a waste of time.

Then, even though I was well aware of my pregnancy, my hope had been to get Mom and Dad to see my side of things, although I knew deep down that they would only settle for an Ivy League college. No matter what I did or said—there was (and still is) only a single road to success in their minds.

And I'm running straight off it.

The fact that I earned the scholarship is the best part though. When Dad had a say in things, I didn't worry about the price tag of a college education as much—he always told me that he, Mom, and Grams put enough money in my college fund over the years to off-set the cost.

But doing the opposite of what Rudy Bennett wants means I'd have no access to that account until I turned twenty-one. So, if I hadn't applied for every possible grant and scholarship, I'd be stuck with a huge student loan that would probably bury me in debt.

Now, all I have to focus on is housing, and creating a monthly budget, and look for a part-time job.

No sweat.

Okay, it is a lot to do, but I'm going to have to get it all done. If I don't, then there is absolutely no way I will be able to take on the role of someone's mother.

And, if anyone can do it, it's me (Or I hope and pray that it's me).

I'm going to withhold judgement until I accomplish at least one of the items on my checklist. I don't want to be like Damon, unjustifiably cocky, and overestimate myself. It may work for him, but most of us can't get away with it.

But first… I'm going to celebrate.

I squeal, a high-pitch noise that goes beyond the frequency that most humans would be able to detect. I dance around the island, skipping over to the kitchen table, where I left the hastily ripped envelope.

"Why are you so happy?" a voice interrupts.

I freeze mid-jump, turning to see my father observing me from his spot in the archway. He's gripping his briefcase like it is glued to his palm, frowning, loafer tapping rather forcefully on the floor.

I try to maintain a baseline level of joy when I respond. "I got an early acceptance letter!"

"To Yale?"

I shake my head.

"Brown, Harvard, Cornell, or Princeton?"

"No," I say. "But I got a full-ride scholarship."

As expected, he doesn't appear enthused or proud. Disappointment shows as his exasperation deepens. Of course, he doesn't care about anything else, only what he deems as an achievement. "Don't tell me…"

"Okay, I'll show you." I hand the letter off to him.

"Whitmore," he groans. "You could do so much better, young lady."

"I'm doing pretty well, Dad. Not many people get their tuition completely paid like that."

"Says the girl who got pregnant at seventeen by a _friend,"_ he slams the paper onto the counter. "Not many people have the chops to go to school where you _were_ going to attend."

"Damon and I are dating now," I say defensively. "And just because this isn't what you wanted for me doesn't mean I'm a failure!"

He gestures to my stomach. " _This_ is what you wanted out of life?"

"No. But… it happened and it's too late to go back and change things now… so, I'm going to play the cards I've been dealt."

"This situation is _not_ something given to you, Bonnie. You had to know that having unprotected sex could potentially lead to this… your mom had the sex talk with you when you were fourteen. Or so I thought."

_Ouch._ So, the dinner and a movie outing didn't do much—if anything—to mend the cracks in their marriage.

"You're right… but…" I pause, somewhat unwilling to say my next rebuttal. "She's my baby and I love her."

If my dad was angry before, he is absolutely _infuriated_ now. I see that bulging vein appear on his forehead again. He's grimacing, as if what I said is causing him physical pain. In the back of my head, I'm trying to estimate how high his blood pressure shot up… this kind of rage _can't_ be good for his heart.

Blood pressure issues did not run in the family, but all the extra stress probably made my father a prime candidate for them now.

"Bonnie—you have _no idea_ how hard it is to be a parent. No _fucking clue._ It's not a cakewalk—and you won't be able to do it. I know because I'm a parent… and I don't get a break! I can't stop being your father—I have to put you first! It's what you do for your child!"

His insinuations strike a chord. "I'm going to do my best… I don't _care_ if you think we can't do it! I'm not giving up—it's _my_ life and _my_ choice!"

My whole body is trembling. Whether it's from anger of my Dad's opinion of me or utter hopelessness I can't tell.

"You really think that boy will stick around? Once he gets his orders, you'll be the _last_ thing on his mind."

He's got a point, it'll be hard on both of us and I don't know how the future will turn out, but I'm not doing this _for_ Damon. His support means more than words can ever express, but he's not the reason I'm choosing to keep her.

For the first time, I'm actually thinking about what _I_ want from life. And, I can admit, a baby wasn't something I thought would be a part of it so soon, but I can't imagine anything else at the moment.

And I know part of it is selfish, something I never try to be, but that doesn't guarantee I'll fall flat on my face. Sure, it would be amazing to have a stable familial support system, but I haven't gotten that from Mom and Dad yet; so, I shouldn't expect different.

I furiously wipe tears I hadn't realized I was shedding. "I'm not stupid—I know that. It doesn't change anything!"

"It's stupid of you to even say that!" Rudy bellows.

"Dad…"

"Don't _dad_ me, Bonnie. I'm not going to sit idly by and watch you crash and burn!"

"W- what?" I stammer pathetically.

"I'm done." Dad states, stopping out of the kitchen without so much as a second glance in my direction.

My knees buckle and I sink to the floor. The impact of bone on tile smarts, even though my legs are covered in the stretchy denim that touts itself as the perfect maternity wear (something I still wouldn't purchase if Caroline doesn't bug me about getting a pair every two weeks or so).

Well, this has always been a possibility. I _knew_ that. I _prepped_ for it ever since I found out I was pregnant. I just didn't quite understand that my father's total abandonment—along with the verbalization—would hurt so badly.

* * *

"Don't let him get you down, Bon Bon," Damon is saying, wiping an errant teardrop off my cheek. "You'll be a great mom!"

I hiccup. "Thank you, but I- I wanted him to b- be p- proud of me! Why c- couldn't he s- see how hard I w- worked!"

He leans back in his chair, contemplating this. Genuinely trying to come up with a plausible reason. "He's just worried, that's all. I know I'm proud of you. That scholarship is a huge accomplishment."

I smile through the sadness. "You really think so?"

"I _know_ so," he says, returning my smile with one of his own. "It's a big fucking deal, you should be proud of yourself, too. That kind of success takes a lot of work."

I lie my head against his chest, listening to the steady _thump_ of his heartbeat. "Thank you, Damon. How'd you get so good at pep talks?"

"I don't know," I feel his shoulders move up as he shrugs. "I blame you—you make me nice."

" _You_ make you nice," I counter, closing my eyes, tension beginning to fade away. "I don't control you."

"No, but you set pretty high standards."

"I do not," I say quietly, but I don't know if he hears me.

He must not have, because I receive no answer. His fingers brush through my hair soothingly. It's so relaxing that I begin to drift off… everything seems so far away… and I feel so much lighter…

_Better. Safe. Loved._

And, for reasons I can't really comprehend, I fight my drowsiness. Open my green eyes, peer up at my boyfriend through my lashes. He looks so peaceful and content, like he's about to fall asleep, too.

"Damon…" I murmur sleepily. "Can I tell you something?"

"Hmm?"

"I love you."

He gazes down at me, grinning lazily. "You do?"

"Yes," I assure him with a yawn.

"How much?"

I consider this. "More than onion rings now, I think."

I find myself blinking, breathing beginning to slow once more. Damon's fingers are still coming through my hair. _This is so close to perfect…_

"High praise from you."

"Yes."

"Bennett?"

"Yes, Salvatore?" My voice is muffled by the fabric of his gray shirt.

"I love you, too. More than you know."

I have a response for him, but I don't remember if I said anything. Actually, I don't really remember what it was. All I know is, I'm extremely comfortable. Damon makes a pretty good pillow, his arms a stellar blanket. I'm vaguely aware of a brief adjustment… probably Damon pulling his legs onto his dad's expensive couch, stretching his legs out so they don't fall asleep under the weight of my body while in an odd position.

If he moved again, I'm not sure. By the time I've registered the first movement, I'm already slipping back into my nap, thinking of all the things I have to be grateful for. Oddly, most of them involve Damon in some way, shape, or form.

Go figure.

_~~X~~_

_Damon attempting to assemble a crib by himself, in a room I've never seen before, with our friends as his audience. It looks like we are in a room that has elements of my own bedroom and his. With some pieces of furniture, a fuzzy blur in the background._

_"Viola!" Damon says, brandishing his hammer. "I did it—without any help from_ you!" _He looks at his brother haughtily._

_"I'm shocked." Care says._

_"I'm not… I knew he'd figure it out eventually."_

_Elena looks at me in mild surprise. "Me too."_

_"See, Bon Bon? I told you that you didn't have to be embarrassed—everyone should know that I'm good with my hands._ "

_The laughter that follows sounds like it's being filtered through a funnel. The scene changes slowly. And in a very creepy manner at that. Caroline, Damon, Stefan, and Elena literally begin melting away, their faces seeping into their flesh. The room contorts and I feel like I'm being folded in half._

_But, when everything rights itself, I am staring at an open field, snapshots of different scenarios playing out in front of me—most, somewhat embarrassingly, have Damon in them._

_Okay. All of them do. I'm not liking my subconscious very much at the moment._

_A picnic, a little girl who is the perfect mixture of us both, running into his arms, giggling, Damon and I holding hands, smiling at each other goofily, declaring our love for one another in front of a man that looks oddly like Mr. Salvatore…_

_The images begin to fade away, the space around me goes dark until everything is blanketed in an endless expanse of pitch black…_

When I open my eyes again, I think back to the weird menagerie of dreams I had.

I can feel the blush creeping up my neck just _thinking_ about some things my psyche created. And it didn't actually happen. It's not the slightest bit real, though it had been pretty vivid in some parts.

My boyfriend stirs, stretching his arms and back. He doesn't miss a beat, takes no time in fully waking up. Damon's alert, as if he sensed the opportunity to tease me before he even opened his eyes.

"Aww, someone is feeling nervous about something." Damon pinches my cheek. I turn and attempt to bite his finger. "Feisty, tonight are we?" he mutters, yanking his hand away from my mouth.

"No, I'm just trying to get my bearings and you're being counterproductive."

"Just because I'm not doing what _you_ want, doesn't mean I'm being counterproductive."

I glare at the fake innocence in his eyes. "And what are you trying to accomplish… oh, two minutes after you woke up?"

"I want to see how long it takes for you to get frustrated and tear your clothes off."

"Again—we _just_ woke up. And what does me being frustrated have to do with me taking my clothes off?"

Damon shrugs casually. "I think you'll get so fed up with my antics that you'll try to shut me up by any means necessary."

"Interesting theory."

"Yeah, you should prove me right."

"Yeah, because I _love_ giving you bragging rights."

"You should."

"Maybe if you carry me to your room… I'm not in the mood to get up."

He grumbles under his breath as he completes the task, acting like it's the most strenuous thing he's ever done. I'm sure he's exaggerating the amount of effort it took, but he plops me on his bed anyway.

And then he smirks.

_Just as I thought._ I don't think Damon Salvatore has an off button. "Smooth Hercules."

"Very funny Medusa," he mutters. Sticking his tongue out.

_That_ gets my attention. "You think being compared to a snake monster turns me on?"

"I don't know. Seems like something you'd be into."

"Where'd you get _that_ impression?"

"That one time we were fucking and you—"

"Okay, point taken."

He just can't resist sticking it to authority figures.

I sit up, checking his alarm clock. His father won't be home until late tonight and my parents with be home in an hour. That should be enough time to—

Damon flops next to me and I nearly topple over from the unexpected movement. He props himself up and the look in his eyes is so intense that I can hardly stand it. I avert my gaze after a second. I may have better balloon-popping skills, but Damon wins in a staring contest hands down.

"I don't even know why you're still so insistent on this." I say. Furrowing my brows "I don't exactly look very attractive right now."

"Don't say that. Your boobs are massive."

I swat him on the arm. "That's not reassuring."

"What? The rest of you looks good, too. I just thought I'd open with a _huge_ positive."

"How Shakespearian of you," I mutter.

"What can I say? Romance just comes naturally to me." He bats his eyelashes. "But if you're uncomfortable we can just watch a movie instead—just _please_ don't put on nauseating chick-flicks."

"How about _Kill Bill?"_

"I knew you had good taste somewhere in that head of yours, Bennett. That movie makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside."

"You're deranged."

"The best people always are Bon Bon."


	30. Hallelujah

* * *

**~Chapter Twenty-Eight~**

* * *

_And I've seen your flag on the marble arch  
And love is not a victory march  
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah_

_~Jeff Buckley, Hallelujah~_

* * *

On Monday, something changes.

I'm not exactly sure _what_ is different, though. I just feel off-kilter.

My morning routine is not the issue, as I do everything I normally would: wake up, shower, eat, pack up my stuff, engage in a verbal battle of wits with Damon, and begrudgingly allow him to drive because my ankles hurt to much to walk to school.

It's not the weather. There's no snow in the forecast, much to everyone's dismay. The sun is out, and it is a bit windy. The cold is so bitter and sharp that I wear a scarf, gloves, and hat, along with my heaviest winter coat.

All of my schoolwork is completed—I even went the extra step of reviewing all of my projects and homework twice as opposed to my usual one. Just to be sure, I take a quick inventory before Damon pulls out of the driveway.

I've got my messenger bag, my sweater, my wallet, keys… I touch my head… hat's on. I shove my gloved hands in the pocket of my jacket, feeling around for my phone until my fingers wrap around it.

I didn't forget to get dressed or brush my teeth…

"You're acting weirder than usual," Damon remarks, keeping his eyes on the road.

"I am not," I say, but I don't sound very sure of myself.

"Denial isn't just a river in Egypt, Bennett…"

"So, you _have_ been paying attention in class!"

His eyes flicker over to me. "Don't try to change the subject…'

"Is that Margot Robbie in a bikini?" I point to a random spot through the windshield.

"What's wrong?" Damon asks and I feel frustrated by his persistence.

It's not something I can put into words… I don't _know_ what the problem is—or if there really even _is_ one to begin with.

I answer the only way I know how. "Nothing. I'm fine."

_~~X~~_

On Tuesday, I feel worse.

My stomach hurts. I couldn't eat breakfast this morning, as my throat is still raw from all the puking I did last night. My body is aching, and my feet hurt even more than they did after a particularly intense cheer practice.

To top it off, I'm also experiencing lightheadedness. Every time I move, I have to convince myself that the room isn't really spinning.

And no one believes me when I say I'm doing great.

"Okay—that's it!" Care exclaims, slamming her fork on the table. "I'm taking you to the nurse!"

"No!" The pit of dread in my stomach grows larger at the mention of going to the nurse's office. I don't want to have to worry about if her glances at me are judgmental or worse if something is _wrong._

I don't dare think to deeply about the more awful of the options. I _can't._ So, I just reiterate what I've been saying all morning, "nothing is wrong. I'm okay."

"Then why do you keep putting your head down?"

"I'm… tired." I say lamely.

"Okay, if you won't see the nurse, I'm going to go find Damon!" Caroline pushes herself up from her seat, arms braced on the tabletop.

That isn't an option either. Damon's meeting with recruitment officers right now. That's why he hasn't been bugging me with nonsensical text messages the past hour—thank God he's has _some_ social etiquette.

"No—he's not here. You can't get a hold of him. He's being a responsible adult!"

"I'm getting Stef, then." Elena announces. "Are you going to be alright for a few minutes without me?"

I know she's addressing Caroline, but I respond anyway. "I'll be okay…"

"Says the real-life embodiment of the walking dead," Care retorts, coming around to sit next to me.

She scoots as close to me as she possibly can without being directly on top of me and throws an arm around my shoulder.

Instinctively, I lean into her, and she holds me upright as another wave of nausea passes over me.

"Bon… I'm actually pretty concerned about you," and she's not kidding. The overly confident air she speaks with isn't audible now.

"Don't be. This is normal."

"I don't know if it is," she replies, voice barely above a whisper.

I shift to the side, showing my friend that I no longer need her support to remain sitting up. I place my arms in front of me (just in case I'm mistaken). "See? I'm all good. It's just the stench of three-day-old meatloaf in the air."

_Smile. Laugh for emphasis._

"You are going to need to do better than that," Care nods at my strained facial expression.

I shove a spoonful of applesauce from Elena's abandoned lunch into my mouth. "This is delicious!"

"Why didn't you get your own?"

"I forgot my wallet."

"I would've bought it for you."

"I didn't want to impose."

Caroline eyes me suspiciously. "That _sounds_ like something you would say if you were in your right mind…"

"See? Fine!" I squeak overzealously.

"I'll let Stefan be the judge of that," she declares, sliding over to let him sit beside me.

"You have a medical degree?" I ask him.

He chuckles. "I guess you can call me Doogie Howser."

" _Who?"_

Stefan turns to Caroline. "It used to be a show my parents watched together—one of the only shows they both liked. The main character is a kid doctor."

"Sounds… campy."

"Neil Patrick Harris is in it," he says with a shrug.

"You're just saying that because Elena made you sit through _Gone Girl_ after I recommended it to her."

The younger Salvatore faces me once more. "You look not-so-good."

"Did you learn how to give compliments from Damon?"

"Worse—my dad."

"I just look like a blimp," I tell him.

Elena places a firm hand on my shoulder. "No, you don't. You're exaggerating."

I sigh heavily, eyes moving to each of the faces staring back at me—all of them lined with worry. "Let's compromise."

"How?"

"If I don't feel any better by the time the next class lets out I'll go to the nurse—promise!"

Care and Elena look torn.

Stefan looks like he disagrees with me completely, but no one can come up with an argument strong enough to sway me.

So, I guess I won this round.

_~~X~~_

On Wednesday, I stay in bed. My mother took one look at me when I woke up and ordered me to go back to my room.

I was so shocked at how adamant she sounded, so woozy and out of it, that I followed her directions without protest. A glance at my clock tells me that it is only five 'o clock and I vaguely remember getting up earlier than that to puke (twice).

She is so worried, that she comes in to see me before going to work. She kisses me on the forehead, brushes my hair off my clammy face.

"Feel better, Bonnie Bear…"

"Thanks Mommy," I say, reaching up to hug her.

"I left a note for you to hand in to the secretary tomorrow—that way your absence won't be unexcused."

I probably should tell her that the only documentation with the ability to do that would have to come from a medical doctor—something she _used_ to be aware of when I was in grade school—but I guess her lack of involvement in the day-to-day workings of my world made her forget about that.

However, I'm too hopeful that this act of kindness will be a step on the road to repairing my relationship with my parents, that I don't say a word about it.

_~~X~~_

On Thursday, I convince myself that a day of rest made all my problems disappear.

And yet… I still have a nagging feeling that proclaims the opposite. It's probably the acetaminophen I took when my discomfort became too much for me to push away.

I know I'm not supposed to rely heavily on it (according to the many Web M.D. articles I pored over) but I couldn't take it anymore. When I was getting ready for school this morning, I figured the best way to take care of my ever-present issues would be to dull them.

But, midway through the day, I notice the effects of the medication wearing off.

Which sucks, because my next class is math and I'm going to need to work a little harder to make up for the instruction I missed.

I try to focus on the string of numbers on the paper in front of me, but I can't. Something just doesn't feel _right_. _Again—_ but more prevalent than before. I shift in my seat, pencil hovering over the math problems I've yet to solve. I'm running out of energy, which leaves me more rundown than before. The light on and off cramping has become more constant and painful. It's beginning to verge into dangerous territory.

"Is there a problem, Bonnie?"

I try my best to sound normal. "No, Mr. Gerard. I'm doing fine."

He is one of the teachers who likes to lament about what a waste of intelligence I've become. I doubt he would be too tolerant of the issues I'm trying to keep in check. A little voice urges me to ask him for the nurse's pass. I contemplate it, the words on the tip of my tongue, but I can't seem to vocalize it. Calculus has never been my favorite subject but it's never downright torturous like it is right now.

At some point, my eyes wander from my paper and over to the clock. I feel like I'm waiting for a bomb to detonate. _Five minutes left,_ I tell myself. I chew on my lip anxiously, tapping my pencil on my desk and my feet on the floor.

When the bell sounds, I am the first one out of my chair. I freeze in my spot when an even sharper pain stabs me in the abdomen. _Fuck_. When it passes, I shove my textbook and worksheet haphazardly into my bag, wincing each time I take a step forward. When I finally make it to the hallway, I put all of my weight on the doorframe. My knees go weak and the only thing keeping me upright is my hold on the wall.

I don't even notice Damon's presence until I hear his voice.

"What's wrong?"

"Just cramps," I say breathlessly. "I'm fine."

"I don't think so." He places a supportive hand on my elbow. "Come on, we are going to the nurse."

I shake my head vigorously. "I don't think the school nurse is equipped to deal with this."

"Do you hear yourself? She's definitely better equipped to deal with it than _us_. She has a degree."

For once, I can't really argue with Damon.

It feels like an eternity before we actually make it to our destination. Damon basically has to carry me over to the small cot in the corner of the room. He sits on the chair directly next to me, hands clasped tightly in his lap. He's a bundle of nerves. I never thought I would see him so out of sorts. If it didn't feel like an entire football team was tap dancing on my stomach, I would give him a hug.

"Bonnie, on a scale of one to ten, how bad is the pain?" The nurse sounds sweet, but there is an underlying layer of concern there.

I grimace. "Eight."

"Have you had any changes in vaginal discharge?"

The Bonnie that's not writhing in excruciating pain recoils at the question. Thankfully, I'm not exactly in my right mind now. "Just this morning."

"Was it watery or bloody?"

"The first one."

The room becomes tense and it's absolutely suffocating. I know that I'm not going to like what Mrs. Burton says next. I can't stop it, though. Her words come barreling at me like a freight train.

"We need to get you to the hospital _. Fast."_

* * *

I do my best to block out the ambulance ride. The mixture of terror, regret, humiliation, and torment that overwhelms my entire being when a few freshman stare at me as I—along with several medics—exit the building.

Everything happens so quickly after I'm loaded into the back of them ambulance that forgetting most things about it isn't that hard of a struggle.

Bits and pieces come to me at random times, like the beeping noises and the voices of the paramedics firing off questions and statements that I can't really remember the answers to, but I attribute them to a bad dream.

A nightmare.

But then, I register the dull pain in my wrist from the I.V. someone stuck in my arm. The foggy beeping that resumed when I was rushed into the hospital room. The ebbing cramps and my parents, who are talking with my doctor.

My eyes are closed.

I'm keeping up the pretense that I haven't woken up since after I heard someone sigh in relief while another doctor announced that I was out of the immediate danger zone, that they were able to stop the pre-term labor.

That statement both scares and calms me down at the same time. The very real situation I found myself in rattles me to the core. I've just entered the second trimester and the baby is nowhere near developed enough to be breathe on her own.

But, I don't have to face that. Whatever medical intervention they implemented to stop my most dreaded fears from coming true had worked.

And she's alright—well, alright considering the circumstances.

I figured if things weren't said directly to me, I'd have a more accurate understanding of what happened and why. If I cut out the need anyone may feel to express empathy, like having to address a nervous teenager, the things I hear won't be sugarcoated.

"… we gave her a cortisone shot… it will help the baby's lungs mature at a faster rate…"

"I see… the fetus isn't viable yet then?" That's dad, responding to the explanation being relayed.

"… well, with today's technology, the baby would have a much greater chance of survival, but we typically don't induce labor unless the mother's condition would cause harm to her or the child."

"Is Bonnie okay?" Mom.

"Yes, I'd still like to keep her for a few days, run a few more tests to see if we can determine the cause behind the pre-term labor, but she should be perfectly fine."

"And the…" Mom hesitates. "… fetus?"

My father grumbles something under his breath.

"We're hoping that the baby will stay put for another few weeks. It's likely that she won't reach forty weeks, though. The ultimate goal is for your granddaughter to have a short stay in the NICU—but it's likely she'll be there for some time."

"Granddaughter…" Dad repeats, as if that were the only word he could catch.

"Yes—the chance of the baby's survival are good, but the earlier she is born the greater the chance of survival."

"Thank you for the information, Dr. Hadley."

"Of course, Mrs. Bennett. When Bonnie wakes up, someone will be in to explain things to her."

"Yes, thank you." My father echoes.

"You're welcome, Mr. Bennett."

I hear the doctor's footsteps get farther and farther away. Once she has rounded the corner, my parents being discussing something in hushed tones. The only part I can make heads or tails of is the grumpy sounding _'fine,'_ Dad huffs when the conversation comes to a close.

And then the door _clicks,_ and I know they've left me alone.

The hospital room is white.

White walls, stiff white sheets and blankets, white linoleum flooring. The only pops of color come from the gray-and-black monitoring equipment, the yellow curtain that separates me from the other bed in my room (which is unoccupied), and the pink chairs across from where I'm currently lying.

It also smells heavily of bleach and what I can only describe as sickness.

I _hate_ it.

So, I search for something to take my mind off of my predicament.

The small television attached to my bed resembles an old computer monitor. I fiddle with the channel buttons and find out only a handful of shows aren't accompanied by a blocky picture.

It's when I've settled on watching an old _Golden Girls_ re-run that the door opens again.

I assumed it would be a nurse or a physician, but neither guess is correct.

It's Damon.

A very rattled, very scared-looking version of Damon.

His hair is sticking out in different directions, his face flushed, mouth set in a straight line, broad shoulders tense. He remains in the entryway, giving me a once over.

"I heard you were begging for me," Damon says in his usual smart aleck tone.

"You wish."

"I mean, I've heard you do it before. Rather loudly, I might add."

If looks could kill he would've dropped dead. I worked long and hard to perfect my glaring abilities and I'm damn good at expressing my disapproval of my boyfriend's commentary. My fingers twitch slightly. And by the looks of it, Damon's never been more grateful for the lack of projectiles in the area.

"Your mom gave me an update." He says after a long moment of silence. "She told me you were feeling better."

"I am—kind of. I'm sorry." I avert my gaze.. "The doctor said she'll be okay—that the outlook was favorable but she's probably going to have to spend time in the NICU. They won't know what exactly needs to be done for her until…" I trail off uncomfortably, grimacing. "… I'm sorry."

Damon pulls up a chair next to my bed and clutches my free hand tightly. "Why do you keep apologizing? I didn't realize sorry was in your vocabulary."

"It's my fault Damon, that's why!" Tears begin to roll down my already tear-stained cheeks. "I was so stressed out, so concerned with school and showing my father up that I didn't pay attention to anything!"

He kisses me on the forehead and wipes my tears away. "Sometimes these things happen, Bon Bon. You're not always in control of everything."

"She could have _died!_ "

"But she didn't. It'll be okay—the survival rate for preterm babies her gestational age is like, ninety percent."

"You're a statistician now?"

"By Google's standards, yes. I needed something to do when the Duggars went to a commercial break."

"You're amazing Damon Salvatore, absolutely amazing."

He smirks. "You're not half bad either. I love you."

My eyes widen like saucers and the corners of my mouth go up slowly. "I love you, too, asshole."

* * *

My eyes burn when I exit the hospital.

I have vastly overestimated how weird it would feel actually adapting to the real world again. The sun is shining brightly, the blue of the sky looks especially vibrant, the grass as green as can be. The air feels brusque against my skin and refreshing in my lungs.

When I push myself out of the wheelchair I almost fall backward. I hadn't realized how stiff my legs had become. My father catches me before I get too close to the ground. He keeps his hand around my arm, holding me steady while we wait for Mom to return with the car.

I had insisted on walking over to the parking space myself, but my pleas fell on deaf ears. I'm to go on bed rest immediately. No running, dancing, jumping, or skipping. Walking is okay as long as it's to the bathroom and right back to my bed.

I already hate it and I haven't even gotten home yet.

When my mom pulls in front of the hospital, my father helps me into my seat before climbing into the back. Things were slightly less tense between us, but I still feel like I'm skating on thin ice. I suspect that's because Dad hasn't really forgiven me for anything, that he's only acting less upset because of how stressed Mom seemed, which she is covering up by saying—and doing—far more than usual.

"When we get home, I'll make you dinner and bring it up to you," my mother is saying. "Your friends will be over with your missed work, too. Would you like them to eat with you? I'm making your favorite."

I don't want to eat anything, really but I know I have to. And my mom is being so kind... I can't say no.

"That sounds great, Mom! Thank you!"

My parents continue on with their small talk as I stare out the window. I hadn't really noticed how _beautiful_ it looks outside. I imagine sitting in the open field inside the park, writing in my notebook about what I see, the things I want my daughter to learn to appreciate.

I also can't wait until I am allowed to move around as I please, but there are more important things to deal with now. For now, I'll have to settle for walking up the driveway and right into my bed

Not ten minutes after Mom brings me my dinner, do my friends make their way into my bedroom. First comes Damon, who plops right on the foot of my bed, putting his socked feet right next to my head. He puts his own plate on the tray and stretches.

Elena and Stefan follow him in, hand in hand and sit down on the floor, up against the pillows that Dad had thrown on the floor in order to give me space on either side of the mattress.

Enzo and Caroline are the last to enter. My former lover interest has a few of my textbooks in one hand and Care carries in more plates of food. I hadn't been expecting a dinner party and I try not to stress over people spilling things in my bedroom.

Or the fact that Enzo has shown up. In my home. Even though I hate his guts.

"Thank God you're home!"

"We're so glad you are okay!" Elena says and Stefan pats her back.

Enzo leans over to give me the books. Damon waves his foot in Enzo's face and he immediately backs up. "Go away, I can't believe you just showed up here. Do Mr. and Mrs. Bennett know you're a scum bag?"

"Apparently not—" Care snaps. "That's why he texted Tyler about it and got here before us."

" _Get out."_ Damon seethes. _"Now. Before I_ make _you."_ he props himself up slightly, eyes darkened and filled with rage.

"Fine. I just wanted to tell Bonnie that I'm glad she's home now," His tone is sharp, defensive.

"You said it—now _leave."_

Enzo looks at me wistfully. "I mean it, Bonnie."

I don't say anything as Stefan escorts Damon's one-time friend out of my bedroom, down the stairs, and out of the house.

When Stefan returns, I relax a bit, though the fact that Enzo didn't stay away bothers me.

To lighten the mood, I swat Damon's foot away from my head and glare. "Your feet stink."

No added stress is on my list of doctor's orders. I keep that in mind as I look around me, grateful for the people I consider family.


	31. Amelia

* * *

**~Chapter Twenty-Nine~**

* * *

_lightning crashes, a new mother cries  
her placenta falls to the floor  
the angel opens her eyes  
the confusion sets in  
before the doctor can even close the door_

_~Live, Lightning Crashes~_

* * *

I've lost track of how long I've been relegated to my bedroom. At least a few days, but there's a very strong possibility my mind is playing tricks on me. I've never been stagnant for more than a day or so, excluding the year I had the flu, so, this is a real irritation for me. All of the days have started to blur together, into one giant unending day. My time have been filled with homework, staring idly at inanimate objects around my bedroom, and strange YouTube videos. Also, I've watched a variety of different shows thanks to Netflix and finished that book I started to read in August. It sucks ass, as Damon would say, and my resolve to just go with the flow is crumbling pathetically.

Especially since I'm running out of stuff to do.

Everything that was sent home to me via Enzo is done. I gave it to Caroline to turn in to the appropriate teachers earlier.

Now, I'm at my wit's end.

So bored that I've opened up the book of crossword puzzles my mom bought me. You know, despite my intense dislike for them. Personally, I'm of the opinion that there are way too many words in the English language that mean the same thing, to narrow them down based on vague clues.

I've muddled through half of one puzzle when I get stuck on eight across: an eight-letter word for bad grammar. I'm ninety percent sure the eight boxes are a misprint—mistake is clearly the only suitable answer, but it's only seven letters long.

I toss my pen aside and grab my cell phone. My only recourse will be to look it up, it seems. I get distracted, though. By a silly text Damon must have sent when he went to have another meeting with the recruiter.

_I'm waiting to pee in a cup. It's so exciting!_

How can I ignore that?

_Okay. I really didn't need to know that._

And then when I realize there's another message below that one, it becomes clear that Damon thinks I have, evidenced by the row of question marks after _Earth to Bennett—you okay?_ And the very theatrical: _text pickle if you're not. That'll be our safe word._

_I'm fine. What's an eight-letter word for a grammatical error?_

_Solecism, my vocabulary-challenged little cream puff._

I refuse to respond to that one. The last thing I need is another Damon Salvatore-appointed nickname. That list is way too long already.

_~~X~~_

After I've abandoned the crossword puzzles and opened up an email from my English teacher that details the next assignment, I stare out my window forlornly.

The sky is dark and cloudy. I have to squint to see the few stars that are visible. And on top of that, it's raining heavily. A clap of thunder sounds, overshadowing the pitter-patter of the raindrops on the roof. And then a bolt of lightning rips through the sky, illuminating the entire front yard for a split second. The grass is long and weighed down by puddles of water. The tree by my bedroom window looks ominous and imposing as the branches sway in the wind.

It's absolutely beautiful.

I've always loved thunderstorms. There's something so… calming about them. At least for me. I love to sit outside and watch them. Stand in the rain with my arms outstretched, getting completely soaked. My favorite moment is when everything just _stops_. The sun forces its way out of the clouds and a rainbow appears in their place. It reminds me that, even under difficult circumstances, things can still turn out alright in the end.

I tried to explain that to my parents one afternoon. I was nine at the time, and Grams had come over to babysit me while my parents went on a romantic weekend getaway. On the night they were supposed to come home it stormed for hours. When the sun set, she took me outside and we danced in the rain. She gave me some advice that I've always had a bit of trouble following _enjoy life. It's not perfect, there will be trials, but they will be yours. Embrace it because those will be the things that will make you who you are._

Mom and Dad didn't think the same way. I repeated those exact words to them, and they were more concerned about the puddle I was dripping onto the floor. Mom had also been completely desensitized to Grams's "new-age" beliefs at that point. As I got older, I figured out that she was embarrassed by her mother's attitude toward life. So, I just stopped bringing those things up around them and after she died I feel as though I forgot about them completely.

I turn back to my laptop screen, where a document with only my name on it is displayed. I have been tasked with writing an essay about whether or not life—specifically _my_ life—has a purpose. How cliché. It's the kind of writing prompt you assign your students if you want to read a bunch of angsty prose. And I _should_ be in luck, my life has been nothing but agonized teenage frustration lately. But I don't want to pour my heart out to a computer right now.

And I'm beginning to feel very uncomfortable. I'm not in horrible pain or anything, but it's the kind of feeling I'm wary of. And I'm home alone. I should have known better to think that my mother and father would actually utilize that dumb office they built in the basement Mom stayed home for a day after I returned to our house. Dad went back to work immediately. My mom texts me throughout the day though, which is okay… I push away the hurt I feel over their lack of concern by telling myself that I wouldn't want to be fussed over constantly.

It helps sometimes.

The minutes on the clock tick away and I've yet to do anything—except text Damon and beg him to bring me a pint of fudge brownie ice cream. He told me he just got done and would be over soon. I let him know where the spare key is and wait for him to arrive. I scroll through a list of movies I think we will both enjoy (some of which I've seen twice already) and the discomfort I'm experiencing grows noticeably.

_You're good. It'll be okay. You just have a stiff back._

I breath in deeply and make those statements my mantra.

It doesn't really work though, and by the time Damon arrives with my ice cream, I'm freaking out internally.

"Are you still fine?" He asks me and he definitely has trepidations.

I mull this over as I feel an eerily familiar stabbing pain in my stomach, followed by an extreme amount of pressure. Anxiety shoots through me and I know I can't brush these symptoms off again.

I squeeze my eyes shut and let my breath out before responding. "I think you need to take me back to the hospital."

"Okay." He says, taking my arm and helping me to my feet. "I'll get you downstairs and then I'll grab your stuff—please tell me you're still on top of your game and everything is all packed."

I point to the bag Care and Elena gave me, stuffed to the brim with a change of clothes for myself, a onesie, a blanket, a handful of diapers, my robe, and my textbooks. I probably have too many things, but I want all my bases covered.

"Actually, I can grab this, too." He expertly swings the bag over his shoulder and helps me walk down the steps.

It's nice to see that cool, calm, collected Damon has made a reappearance. I know during my previous hospital stay, the doctors gave me a shot to help the baby's lungs develop faster, but that doesn't soothe me. It's still way too early for this to be happening—again.

_~~X~~_

Once we are in his car and traveling in the direction of the hospital, I give my doctor a call. I do my best to articulate what is happening, but I feel like nothing I'm saying makes any sense. I hang up my cell and press my forehead on the cool glass of the window. I really tried to follow the obstetrician's instructions to the letter. So much for that—I'm still in the same situation I was just days ago.

Damon places a reassuring hand on my thigh. "It's going to be alright, Bon. You can do this."

"I don't want to," I whisper. I feel hopeless. I couldn't protect my own daughter—at least that's what it _feels_ like.

"I don't think that's how labor works, but what do I know? I'm a guy." He keeps his tone light, as if we are having one of our normal conversations.

"My thoughts exactly."

"Go ahead… tell me some more things I don't know about," he encourages.

"I don't think we have that kind of time."

"If I weren't so high on adrenaline right now, I would be offended by that."

"Oh, that's another one. You can't control how arrogant you are…"

"Okay, I get it. Come up with some new material."

"Come on, that's classic—" I stop short, gritting my teeth when my pain level increases.

I realize how bad this is going to get when I can't think of anything new to tease Damon about.

It's going to be a long night.

* * *

I'm admitted immediately.

Everything is the same. The only difference this time is the room itself. They placed me in the wing closest to the entrance of the maternity ward. I sit in my bed, arms across my chest, frown plastered on my face. The constant beeping is grating on my nerves. I want to scream, but I'm not sure if it's from the pain or annoyance.

I tilt my head back and groan. This fucking _hurts_ —worse than before and last time had been awful. I was hoping that would be the extent of it. Again, I was wrong. Why does that keep happening to me? I'm supposed to be right, God damn it! I ball my hands into fists and slam them into the mattress over and over and over again. A garbled scream forces its way through my clenched teeth.

Damon leans back in his chair. "Do you want ice chips, a priest maybe?"

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to breathe, but it's becoming harder and harder to do.

"Sorry. That was insensitive."

My eyes open and the lights above my head are blurry. I turn my head and look at Damon, whose blue eyes are cool, his face a mask of strength, jaw set. "It's fine, Damon. I'm more concerned about her… later. Can you hold my hand?"

"Of course."

When Damon's hand is in mine, I let my eyes find the huge whiteboard on the wall. The goal, written in a curly script, says: _healthy mom; healthy baby._ How can she be healthy if I give birth at twenty-six weeks pregnant? I think of the pictures I had shown Damon after I was discharged earlier in the week. Babies born sooner than planned don't look like babies. They seem so fragile. I won't be able to hold her. More than likely, she will be whisked away before I can even see her.

"How about we come up with a name?" Damon suggests. "I think if we call her _hey you_ for the rest of her life she might have a complex."

I nod. My head and my hair are drenched in sweat, even my pillows are soaked.

"How about Damiana? In honor of the awesomeness that is me."

"Nice… to… know… your… ego… is still… in-tact."

"I will take that as a no," Damon says, smiling at me.

My grip on his hand tightens as another contraction hits me. I let out a cry. I sound like a wounded animal. I feel Damon yank his hand away from me, but he can't free himself from my grasp.

"Bon, I'm going to need to retain the use of my hand."

I don't disagree with him, but I don't think I can let go of him. Not now. Not when I need him the most. Damon's phone starts ringing and if I could've, I would have laughed at how awkwardly he answered it.

"Mrs. B, you got my text? Yeah… we are at the hospital now. She's doing fine. You want to talk to her?"

"No." I choke out. "I'm not—" My words stop short and I yelp again.

It's not the pain that's stopping me from talking—not completely. I am also pretty mad at her, and I don't know if I'm being rational or not, but I'm upset that she wasn't there for me, that she was at work when she could have been home with me. Work always seemed to come first for the both of them.

Damon politely tells my mother that I've declined her request and hangs up.

He looks up at me with a forced smile. "Your mom is on her way and so is your merry band of teenyboppers. All of 'em. _Yay_." He can't even fake enthusiasm.

Everything else ends up being a pretty fuzzy memory later on, but in the moment it feels like ever single aspect of the birthing process is burned into my brain.

I end up needing an emergency c-section and I can't control the fear shooting through my entire body like a fast-moving poison. And then numbness. The operating room was dark except for the bright overhead lights.

I hear the muffled voices of my doctors and then felt pressure. Extreme pressure. I was supposed to hear a cry, but I didn't

And for a long moment I didn't think I would. Just as the weight of the world is about to come crashing on my shoulders, I get a reprieve.

Then I did hear it. An ear-piercing wail hit my consciousness and I've never been more relieved in my entire life. A saw a quick flash of sterile blue, and she is taken away. The APGAR scale. To make sure she is alright. And Damon said something, but I didn't understand him.

And now I'm back in the maternity ward, trying not to puke from all of the pain-killers in my system. I feel like a zombie and it hurts to move even a fraction of an inch. Damon has taken it upon himself to tell me how she's doing—which I'm thankful for—but it doesn't really help because I haven't seen her myself. Not in-person. Damon has assured me that, while she doesn't look like a typical newborn, the doctors said the prognosis is good. She's alive. She needs help breathing, so she's on a ventilator. She can't suckle so they feed her with a tube. It breaks my heart, but I try to remain positive. She is in the best care humanly possible and the neonatologist has promised Damon that his figure of ninety percent is fairly accurate.

The medical professionals have reiterated this to me, but I won't believe them until I see her myself.

She's also still nameless. And that is horrific to me. She's in the NICU and she doesn't even have a name yet. I haven't even been a mother for more than a couple hours and I'm already fucking up. My brain is a bit foggy, but I need to be able to convey to Damon how important this is. I tug on his arm, sucking in a sharp breath when I realized I shouldn't have moved so fast..

"She needs a name!"

Damon shrugs me off. "First off, _ouch_. I still haven't recovered from your death grip _five hours ago._ Secondly, I already gave you my suggestion. You're the one that didn't like it."

I feel frantic. "Yeah, I know and they're probably calling her Jane Doe or Baby Something-or-Other."

"They call unidentified dead bodies Jane Doe, Bon Bon. That's an awful comparison for multiple reasons."

"So, you see my point!" My voice goes up several octaves. I'm hysterical.

He takes a deep breath and kisses me on the forehead. "I wish I could have whatever you're on. I get it—I think. I also don't think you'll remember all of this conversation later. But what do you think her name should be?"

I draw a blank.

I _thought_ that I would just _know_ who she was and everything she is meant to be once I held her in my arms, but things obviously didn't go that way. But her name should be special to both of us. "Her middle name should be Lillian. In honor of your mom."

She meant the world to him and if I weren't on so many drugs, I'd say that he may have teared up a bit at my suggestion.

"I like that idea," he says, giving me a peck on the lips. "You're brilliant—even when you're high as fuck. What about her first name?"

"How about Amelia?" I ask, looking up at him hopefully. It had been my great-grandmother's name and Grams' middle name. That way, both of us will carry a piece of the woman who raised me.

"I like it. Still think my name is better, though."

"No."

"Okay… we will go with yours. Bossy."

"Oh, good."

"Are you ready for visitors yet? Blondie and Elena have been annoying me for I don't know how long."

"No. I want it to be just us. And I want to go see her."

"We will. The doctor has to check on you first, though."

"Damn it!"

As upset as I am about the waiting period, I'm just glad she's doing alright. And then I find myself relaxing a little.

"I _can_ show you a picture though. I snapped one when they took me down to the NICU to explain everything." He pulls the photograph up.

She is so tiny—so small that she could fit comfortably inside my hands. The tubes coming out of her are scary, but I don't pay much attention to them. She's perfect. And I already love her more than words could explain.

"You know, I love you, but I definitely love her more."

"Ditto." I lean my head on his shoulder, his phone still in my hand.

And we stay like that for a while, blissfully happy, until I find myself drifting to sleep.


	32. Stand By Me

* * *

**~Chapter Thirty~**

* * *

_When the night has come  
And the land is dark  
And the moon is the only light we'll see  
No, I won't be afraid  
Oh, I won't be afraid  
Just as long as you stand  
Stand by me_

_~Ben E. King, Stand By Me~_

* * *

My hospital room has become a revolving door of doctors, nurses, and visitors. Some welcomed and others tolerated. Among the people I'm hesitant to see are my parents, who I'm sure were extremely worried that they wouldn't be seeing me for a bit and that their primary source of information would be Damon. They don't look pleased when I finally consent to their presence. As much as I hate to admit it, I guess I understand why. Part of me doesn't blame them for feeling so put-off by my distance—I haven't been the best communicator. But I also feel that they relied upon my ability to be self-sufficient way too much.

So maybe we are all at fault.

But just because I can admit I didn't handle things all that well, that doesn't make up for their absence when I needed them or the shame they regard me with. The thought makes me start sobbing uncontrollably. This is normal—or so I've been told. My hormones need to regulate themselves and they wouldn't be doing that for a few weeks. Which fucking sucks.

So, when my mom comes over and envelopes me in a hug, I let her. My father stays as far away from me as possible, backing himself into a corner, right next to the large (white) wardrobe.

"I'm so glad you're okay, sweetie. It's alright." She runs her fingers through my tangled hair and presses her lips to the top of my head.

"I'm a h-horrible d-daughter!" I hiccup. I'm pretty sure the front of her pinstriped blouse is covered with my tears and snot. It's made of pure silk and I am pretty certain she only wears it to work when she has an important meeting to attend. Mom, however, doesn't seem to notice.

"You are the best daughter I could have hoped for, Bonnie Bear. Now are you going to tell me about my granddaughter, or do I have to text Damon?"

I want to tell her yes, that Damon actually _is_ the best person to speak to at the moment because he can talk about her without bursting into tears. But I don't. Because that's not very fair and I really do strive to be that very thing—even to my own personal detriment, it seems. That's me: Bonnie Bennett—Martyr Extraordinaire.

I take a deep breath, steady myself, and begin my explanation. "She's doing alright. We aren't allowed to hold her yet—she's hooked up to a ventilator. She's about two pounds and she looks like a raisin. Well, in my opinion, she does. The doctors say she will have to stay in the NICU for at least a few months, maybe longer."

"I'm so sorry honey. I know how hard this must be for you."

I don't want pity. I already know how difficult this is. I don't want or need it to be reiterated to me every time someone new comes to see me. I won't get to take her with me when I get discharged. I have to live my life with constant worry. It's already killing me. Slowly and I can't even close my eyes and wait for it to be over. I need to keep moving, go about business as usual. I'm already formulating a plan to return to school. And then I'll be here, every second that's available and I won't leave until they kick me out.

"I'll be fine." I say, voice even. "I don't have a choice."

"I love you Bonnie," Dad looks at me. The turmoil he seems to be going through is almost too much to bear.

"Love you, too, Dad."

He opens his mouth to say something else. I see the restraint he's using to stay quiet. I might have commended him for it if it wasn't for the circumstances we are currently under.

My mother gives me another kiss, this time on my cheek. "Your dad and I are going to go to the cafeteria. Do you want anything?"

"No thanks." I force myself to look cheerful.

"Alright, honey. We will be back soon."

As soon as they exit, Damon comes through the doorway, holding two Styrofoam cups, and whistling the theme song to _The Addams Family_. I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders when he meets my gaze. His eyes light up and he sits on the edge of my bed. I flinch as I scoot over to give him room to lay down.

He gives me one cup and takes a swig from the other. I can feel the heat emanating from my drink. I breathe in. Coffee. I take a sip, nearly scalding my tongue in the process. He ordered it just like I like it—no cream and three sugars. I've known Damon a long time—the majority of my life—and not once do I remember telling him how I take my coffee.

"Are you psychic?"

"What?"

I wave the cup in the air. "You just magically knew how I like to drink my coffee?"

The look of confusion vanishes. "Oh! No, not at all. You were begging me for it last night, but you were also dry heaving every two minutes; so, I figured I'd get you some today—because you're not stoned off your ass."

I have no recollection of this.

"Yeah, I don't think so."

"Really?" Damon raises his eyebrows in a way that screams _challenge accepted._ He pulls out his phone, scrolling through various media files. When he finds the one he wants, he hands it to me, smirk already in place. "Then what is that?"

I press _play_ and immediately wish I pressed _delete_ instead. I'm whining. Loudly. Begging Damon for coffee because I pushed—or rather, _attempted_ to push—a human out of my body just hours ago. He doesn't respond to me with words, he simply pushes a pink tub in front of my face when the aforementioned dry heaving commences.

This… well… this bit of video _cannot_ leave this room under any circumstances.

I attempt to drag the recording over to the trash can icon, but Damon takes it from me before I have the chance to complete my mission. He holds the phone just above my reach and I know better than to try and grab it. No way do I want to fuck up my stitches.

"You're going to delete it."

"Why would I do that? One day, when Amelia is old enough to talk, she's going to ask about the day she born and instead of telling her how scared we were I'll show her this little gem."

"How thoughtful of you," I grumble.

There is a faint knock on the door. We turn around simultaneously and find Elena and Caroline hanging in the doorway. Chipper and carrying two bouquets of Queen of the Night tulips and orange begonias. To the average person, these two flowers would make a very strange looking bouquet. To me, they are a thing of beauty. The orange flowers are my favorite. The deep-purplish tulips were my grandmother's. She always claimed they have a bewitching quality about them. And they certainly look like it.

"I missed you guys!" I shoot Damon a look that tells him to _move_ , which he does without complaint, slipping his phone back into its hiding place.

The girls encircle me. One friend sits on either side of my hospital bed. They both lay their heads on my shoulders. I find the smell of Elena's perfume and Caroline's shampoo comforting. Lavender and freesia make me feel like I'm back at home, watching _The Notebook_ with them for the billionth time. But they are chomping at the bit for news; so, I can't revel in the familiarity.

"What's the deal with our niece?" Caroline demands impatiently.

Elena, in a calmer tone, says: "Damon says he has a picture. Can we see it?"

I nod. "Be forewarned, she's not going to look like a normal newborn."

"We know," Caroline assures me. "She's going to be the cutest preemie ever!"

I still don't think Care is prepared for what she's going to see. If Amelia's size doesn't shock her, the feeding tube probably will. I predict Elena will handle it a bit better, even better than I did.

Damon shows them with a long sigh.

Care gasps. "Oh Bonnie…"

"What's her name?" Elena sounds in awe… and something else I can't put my finger on.

"Amelia." Damon answers before I can even open my mouth. "Middle name Lillian."

Elena beams. "Did you tell Stef?"

"No. He can hear it whenever he decides to show up. I'm tired of being the messenger boy."

"Damon…"

A few minutes tick by and nobody says anything. The silence is only broken when Stefan strolls through the door, an envelope underneath his arm. Elena goes over to her boyfriend and wraps her arms around his neck. "Did everything work out okay?"

"Yeah, for the most part. But it was a pain in the ass to get it back up."

His older brother snickers. "You know, what you guys do in private is not my business, but I think you're a little young for that kind of issue."

"Shut up, Damon. Your brother got you a gift." Elena plants her hands on her hips in disapproval.

"Oh goody! It's not even my birthday."

Stefan rolls his eyes and passes the present to Damon. The envelope is large, and our names are written on it in Stef's clean, clear script. He shakes the wrapping and it rattles faintly. "It's not money. Man, I'm a little disappointed."

And then he opens it. A picture frame slides into his palm. It has hinges on the left side. When Damon opens it, I see three slots for photographs. The first space is filled with the picture from the Salvatore's living room, though it's a much smaller version. Stef must have had to drag the original to the drug store photo center so they could shrink it down properly. The other two are empty.

"When she comes home I figured we could take an updated family photo."

Damon stares at it and then looks up at Stefan. "Thank you, brother. It means a lot."

* * *

I never thought I'd dread leaving the hospital—especially after giving birth. But I do. I avoid going into my bags. I don't want to look at the clothes I won't be able to dress my baby in. I have been working very hard to keep the waterworks contained and that won't help me any.

Damon tosses me one of his t-shirts and a pair of his sweatpants.

He doesn't want to acknowledge it either.

I try to get dressed without groaning in pain. Damon ends up having to help me put the pants on due to my problems with bending over. I wished I looked more like I did over the summer, but I still resemble someone who is at least five months pregnant. And I feel much worse, if you can believe that. I try to be sneaky and sniff Damon's shirt. It still smells like him.

He crouches down and rolls up the hems of the pants. "Saw that."

"Don't know what your talking about," I counter, sticking my tongue out like he would.

"Sure, sure," he says, standing up.

I'm putting my slippers on when the nurse comes in to finish the discharge process. I sit down on the edge of the bed, throwing a miserable glance at the car seat Amelia is far too small to fit into. Damon offered to take it down and put it in his trunk so we don't have to look at it until we bring her home. I agreed, but I don't think it will fit there. His car is sleek and mid-sized, so I'm not too sure he will be able to shut it. I can only hope.

The nurse reminds me I'm not supposed to be driving or basically doing any other strenuous activities for six weeks or so. No sex until I make a follow-up appointment with my doctor after the allotted healing time. I don't make eye contact with her when I say that I understand what is being told to me. She reminds me that it's okay to go home, that I can come back at any time, but it's better for recovery if I rest anywhere that's not here. But I can't stand the fact that I can only _look_ at my baby. I didn't even get a chance to hold her and wouldn't get to do so for a while.

_This_ has got to be the hardest thing I've ever done.

I beg the nurse to write me a note saying I can return to school twelve days from today. I don't even know if I will be able to endure that long inside my own head, but I want to be practical. She reluctantly agrees, reminds me that my timeline is subject to change. Oh, and under no circumstances, should I be participating in PE. No big deal. The cheerleading team is flourishing with Anna. I know the football games have gained at least one loyal spectator because of her.

She leaves and I feel like dying as we walk, hand-in-hand, to the main lobby. We are in this together and we _will_ get through it—come hell or high water.

* * *

The last twelve days have been absolute torture. We both spent the first half of the week going back and forth to the hospital. And the better portion of our days was spent sitting by her incubator and chatting with the nurses and other parents. Damon had to go back to school on Wednesday. On Thursday night, my mom suggested we chill out and watch a movie, so we opted for an _Evil Dead_ marathon. I woke up midway through the second film. My head was on Damon's chest and we were covered with Grams' quilt. Damon had been snoring, sleeping like a log. The clock on the wall read one in the morning. I went back to sleep the second I closed my eyes again.

And today, I'm going back to school for the first time since that incident when I left the building on a stretcher. I really wish I had considered that prior to begging for a shorter leave. _Dumb move._ I am still subsisting on Damon's wardrobe and moccasins. I did my hair in hopes that it would distract my peers from the appearance of my body post-birth. As I'm scrutinizing myself in Damon's side view mirror, I conclude that it didn't help my cause any.

The sun is out, and the school looks idyllic, like something you would see in a teen movie from the eighties. Nothing has changed—it looks like it always has and always will. Red bricked with a grand entryway and the set of ten steps leading to the main doors. But to me, it's like I'm walking into an alien's spaceship. The comments start as soon as I open the car door, and everyone is incredibly vocal about their shock at my return.

No one even knows that I had the baby. Elena, Stefan, Caroline, and Tyler being the exception to the rule. But I'm sure they are _curious._ Hell, even I would be if I were an outsider looking in. A bunch of people start in on us like vultures as we walk through the main entrance.

Some classmates have the decency to ask how I'm doing. Others just want to know if I lost the baby—not that I ever explicitly told anyone I was pregnant in the first place. The first person to inquire about this is someone I loathe; Kai. Damon promptly shoves him against the lockers before the word _dead_ leaves his mouth. It feels like time has stopped. If I didn't think I'd reopen my incision I'd have hit him myself. I put my hand on Damon's shoulder, causing him to freeze mid-punch. His arm is shaking.

"He's not worth it," I say as calmly as I can. "Let's go."

_~~X~~_

The gossip never ends. Throughout the day I hear whispers about me, about my daughter, about how lucky I am that Damon even bothered to stick around. I do my darndest to keep my nose to the grindstone. I haven't screwed up on an assignment yet and I'm not about to let some assholes get to me.

Fuck that.

So, I scribble my answers down, concentrating far too much on the curves and lines of each letter I write. History is thought-provoking and I've always been fascinated by the Salem Witch Trials. Alaric Saltzman's voice almost drowns out the sounds of murmurs and poorly thought out barbs, but not quite. That is, until he slams his teacher's edition text book on his desk. Then you could hear a pin drop.

"That's enough. Most of you are legally adults—you'd think you would have at least developed _some_ tact by now." He nods at me. "Miss Bennett, I'm happy to have you back. Class just hasn't been the same without your insights. Do any of you guys want to add anything? I advise you to choose your words carefully."

The lack of response is deafening.

When I go to leave the classroom, I stop by my teacher's desk, hand him my missed homework. "Thank you, Mr. Saltzman. You didn't have to defend me the way you did." _Especially since I bailed on his project._

"Of course, I did—you are going to do great things with your life Bonnie. Being a mother is only one accomplishment. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

I nod. _Don't cry. Please, for the love of all that is holy, don't cry._

"I think you're the first person to say that to me—even my mother didn't put it like that."

He smiles at me. A genuine, honest-to-God smile. For a second, I understand why Caroline has swooned over him for the past three or so years. "Eh. I used to teach a poetry class before I moved here. Just so you know, the same basic principle applies to Damon. Would you mind telling him to come see me before lunch?"

"Sure thing—thank you again, Mr. Saltzman."

"No problem."

I exit the classroom, almost running straight into my best friends. They each hook an arm around mine. There's that unbreakable chain, still strong and solid despite the storms it has weathered over the years. And we walk like that for the rest of day—in the hallways at least—ignoring the looks we get for doing so.

* * *

This is it. The moment I have been waiting for.

Well, the first stepping stone leading to the moment I have been waiting for.

Damon and I are decked out in yellow smocks and gloves. We are about to hold Amelia for the very first time. I've been here nearly every day since I was permitted to leave the hospital. Damon has been with me all but one time—my mother came to see her yesterday. It had been the very first time she saw her outside of pictures. I can only hope she fell in love with Amelia just as I have.

I take her from the nurse eagerly. She is still incredibly small. It's almost as if I'm holding a feather in my arms. She still looks wrinkly, but she is beginning to look like a regular newborn baby. She can only be out of her incubator for a few minutes, so I reluctantly hand her off to Damon. All the worries and doubts people have vocalized about his ability to be a good father disappear and a aura so gentle and sweet falls over him that I don't know how to react.

One of the nurses offers to take a picture for us and I'm so thankful that this moment has been captured forever. The three of us together. A family—and I realize then that I have everything I could possibly want right in front of me. I finally feel complete.


	33. Epilogue: Have You Ever Seen The Rain?

* * *

**~Epilogue~**

* * *

_Someone told me long ago  
_ _There's a calm before the storm  
_ _I know, it's been comin' for some time  
_ _When it's over, so they say  
_ _It'll rain a sunny day  
_ _I know, shinin' down like water_

_~Creedence Clearwater Revival, Have You Ever Seen The Rain?~_

* * *

"Bonnie, we're going to be late!"

I cringe as Care's voice hits my ears. She is right—something I never thought I'd have to admit, even to myself, when it comes to being punctual. Caroline is typically all about being fashionably late. A party isn't a party if she isn't there, after all. I allow myself one more look in the mirror. I took a half an hour straightening my hair this morning. It needs to look perfect. My make-up is subtle, but the extra eyeliner I put on makes my eyes stand out. For once, I like the way I look. I can't say that I've felt like that a lot this past year, but it's a welcome change of pace.

On my way out the door I check to make sure I've grabbed everything I need. Damon texted me a list for me to look at before I left the house. It's surprisingly thorough. It even has a cute little note at the end. _Love you. You've got this slugger!_ I had meant to ask him when he became such a baseball fan, but it had slipped my mind. I had so many other things I needed to get done—so did he and we haven't seen each other since we went to visit Amelia yesterday morning. It feels like it has been a lifetime, but I think Damon's theatrics are beginning to rub off on me. I just hope Amelia is spared that one particular personality quirk. I don't know if I could deal with double the dramatics.

"Bon!"

"Coming!" I call back, smoothing out the wrinkles in my floral, blush-colored dress before slamming my bedroom door shut.

I take the stairs two at a time, jumping off the last step and saluting my best friends. "I'm here!"

They are standing at the foot of the staircase, expressions of giddy excitement on their faces. Caroline is a bit over-dressed, as usual, and I cannot imagine wearing heels as tall as hers. She's towering over Elena, who has gone with a simpler look: a deep mauve, tea-length dress and kitten-heeled sandals. Of course, she seems way less concerned about the time. Her brown doe-eyes are brimming with excitement. Care's blue ones are disapproving.

"Did Damon teach you that?" Care asks.

I scoff. "As if. More like I'm helping him before he goes to basic training. I don't want him to get punished for insubordination the second he gets there."

"A very real possibility," Elena adds with a quiet chuckle.

"You're not kidding," Caroline says, checking her watch. "I'd be surprised if he shows up on time today. Speaking of, we'll be right there with him if we don't get going. I think everyone else is already there."

"Care, everything is still within walking distance."

"Let's _go!"_ she grabs both of our arms and pulls us through the front door.

The weather is perfect. The sun is shining brightly, the sky a brilliant cloud-free blue. The grass green and still slick with dew. There is a slight breeze, but it isn't strong enough to combat the warmth in the air. It has to be at least sixty-nine degrees outside, which is a bit on the cooler side this time of year.

All in all, it's a great time for new beginnings.

_~~X~~_

When we arrive at the school, the football field is packed. It has been turned into an outdoor auditorium for today's special occasion. I search the stands for my parents to no avail. They must be seated all the way in the back. I _do_ spot Jeremy and Anna, though. They are sitting two rows up from the stage, holding hands and presumably searching the crowd of students for us. We are all clustered by the school's front doors, entering two at a time. When Care, Elena, and I reach the gym locker rooms, Elena hands us our respective garment bags.

Inside each one is a bright red gown and cap with a yellow tassel hanging from the top. Caroline compared our graduation garb to a McDonald's billboard and we unanimously agreed. And by unanimously, I mean the entire graduating class. It seems silly now, who cares about our school's poor choice of colors? I'm just so thankful to be standing with my friends. There had been so many times this year that I thought I wasn't going to make it here. It's surreal to actually be here, in this very moment. Most of us are on the brink of total adulthood, and while I feel I've crossed that line months ago, today kind of makes it official.

The only thing that would improve my mood would be if Amelia were here, but she needed to remain in the NICU a few more days. I had been disappointed when the nurses gave Damon and I the update yesterday. I had been able to hold back my tears and I had realized I didn't want her in this setting anyway. Large groups of people are an illness waiting to happen, according to Mr. Mom. And Damon is totally correct, but it didn't lessen the emptiness I felt every time we left the hospital.

I crane my neck, hoping to find him among the throngs of students, teachers, and faculty. No luck. I frown as we are ushered into alphabetical order. There are seven classmates between me and Caroline and another four between her and Elena. Stefan and Damon are closer to the end of the line. Stef is not only the youngest person receiving his diploma today, but he is also the youngest salutatorian in Mystic Falls High School's history. I'm rather proud of Stef. So is Damon. He went on a ten-minute spiel about it to Amelia. _"Uncle Steffy is way smarter than me kiddo,"_ he told her in the mushiest tone of voice I've ever heard. On anyone. _Ever. "He can help you with all your homework."_

I'm pulled away from my thoughts when I hear pomp and circumstance begin. It rings in my ears. I feel myself moving forward almost robotically. I'm actually afraid I might trip, which is odd, because I'm always pretty steady on my feet. The three years I spent cheerleading basically cemented that fact, but I'm also so different from the person I had been not too long ago.

We all take our seats and the graduation ceremony begins.

Principal Hayes begins her speech, which is similar to the one she gave at the previous graduations. She talks about the many events the class participated in. Including, but not limited to bake sales, car washes, school carnivals, and fundraisers. In fact, our class collected more canned goods than any other grade level had this past semester

And then Stefan is called for his address.

It's a very well-articulated monologue. He speaks of changes, both big and small, and how we should welcome them with open arms. How the next chapter of our lives may be scary, but we should never fear taking the road less traveled—because we learn more that way. I find myself nodding with every poignant remark he makes.

I almost don't hear them call the valedictorian to the podium.

"Bonnie Bennett!"

I stand, a buzz of anticipation hitting me. I had worked on my address for a solid week, writing and re-writing it at least three separate times. I practiced in front of my mom, dad, Care, and Elena. I read the finished product to Damon and our daughter yesterday. He told me it was amazing, that there wouldn't be a dry eye in the entire room. Except his, he reminded me because he's too macho too cry.

I grip my index cards tightly, ascending the stairs with what I hope is an air of confidence. I stand at the podium, back straight, hands folded primly on the stand. _I did it._ I take a deep breath and lean into the microphone.

"Good afternoon families, teachers, students. I want to start off by saying that it has been an honor to grow up with you guys. We finally made it. I remember thinking about this day when we were in seventh grade. It seemed so far away then. And now, now it feels like the blink of an eye. And we learned so much in that one blink: highs and lows, love and heartbreak, triumph and failure. And it made us stronger. Ralph Waldo Emerson once said: ' _We acquire the strength we have overcome.'_ And he's absolutely right. Only by overcoming adversity do we better ourselves. Life isn't going to go easy on us, but that doesn't have to bring us down. Our years at Mystic Falls High School have taught us more than academics. It taught us how to persevere through hardships—whether that be a bad grade or a bad break-up. We learned to come back stronger than we were. And, while we may all be going in different directions, we can still look back on our years in school with great fondness. I know I will. It may make the hard times that much easier. So, while life may seem hellish and downright cruel sometimes I urge you all to remember a poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson entitled _The Charge of the Light Brigade:_ ' _Into the valley of Death. Rode the six hundred.'_ That's us heading into the unknown and while not everything will be a great success, it is still a valuable experience. If we keep that in mind we will always prosper... and everything will be alright. I've been talking way too much, and I know all of you are ready to show the world what you are made of. So, once again, congratulations. Oh—and go forth and prosper!"

I find Damon in the sea of faces in front of me. I added that line especially for him. I'm becoming just as mushy as he is, it seems. And I'm not sure I consider either transformation a bad thing.

I step away from the podium. I head back to my seat among the sound of applause.

_~~X~~_

The flashes from all of the cameras are blinding.

The five of us found each other after five minutes of searching. Care, Elena, and I didn't stray too far from our places in the middle of the field. It is more accurate to say Damon and Stefan had to locate us. And when they do, Damon throws an arm around my shoulder and plants an obnoxious, sloppy kiss on the cheek. Stef shakes his head at his older brother and hugs Elena tightly.

"That was an awesome speech, Stef!"

"Thank you, but I think I liked yours better. It packed more of a punch."

"And you guys say _I_ have an ego." Damon rolls his eyes theatrically.

"You do!" The four of us say simultaneously.

_~~X~~_

We make our way back to the front of the school. Where everyone is gathering with their families. Our parents make up the biggest group there. Liz Forbes, my parents, Isobel and John Gilbert, Elena's Aunt Jenna, Mehri, and Jeremy and Anna. From the corner of my eye, I see Mr. Salvatore approaching us. Damon notices, too. His entire body stiffens, and his blue eyes darken. I want to find a rock to crawl under. I don't think Giuseppe has even bothered to ask how his granddaughter is doing. I know Damon told him how up in the air everything felt the first few days. And , if I make an educated guess, I'd wager he didn't offer a single word of sympathy to his son.

"Stefan, you did a wonderful job. Bonnie, dear, you as well. Especially after everything you've gone through."

That is a backhanded compliment if I ever heard one. My dad has gotten pretty good at giving those to me, too.

"Thank you, Mr. Salvatore." I reply in a small voice.

He gives me a nod. "Damon—good job." Before Damon can say anything he faces Elena's aunt and the Forbes family, hand extended. "I'm Giuseppe. Damon and Stefan's father. I'm sure they both told you _kind_ things about me… and by that, I'm sure my niece—" he points to Mehri, who offers an awkward smile, and continues, "did it for them."

Jenna is the one to reply. "Nonsense! We've heard about you, Giuseppe. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Dad offers a hand and says, "Nice to see you, Giuseppe."

"Nice to see you, Rudy."

The warm greeting between the two fathers gives me pause. I wonder if they've formed a kinship because of the mess Damon and I created.

Mr. Salvatore turns back to me. "I was packing up some of Damon's baby things—so he can take them with him when he moves out of state." He clears his throat rather loudly. "And I came across this stuffed elephant his mother gave him. I'm sure…"

" _Amelia_." Damon says sharply. "For the eighth time."

"Yes—I was going to say that. Amelia would like it, I'm sure. My wife, Lily, loved elephants."

"I'm sure she will. When she's a bit older…"

"Because she's in the hospital still… like I told you last week and the week before that—"

"I'm aware, Damon. If you'd let me finish you would understand that."

I look down at my feet awkwardly. _Maybe I should have gone with the orange polish instead of the light pink… wow, my feet_ still _look swollen…_

"I think I would like to meet the little one," Giuseppe says.

My head snaps up. I exchange a look with Damon, who looks as if he would rather douse himself in acid than let that happen.

"Maybe after she comes home, sir." I begin slowly. "Damon and I are really the only ones that can see her now. My mom has only seen her once and my father is in the same boat as you." _Not that he hasn't been invited to come see her…_

Giuseppe smiles and it scares me a bit. It looks so _out of place_. I wonder when he smiled last. I'm thinking years ago. "Very well, Bonnie. I look forward to it."

He turns on his heel and departs.

* * *

It is just me and Damon. Pictures have been taken (excessively) and our celebratory dinner has been eaten. The sun has gone down, and we find ourselves sitting on the bench in the park, searching for constellations in the sky.

I lean on his shoulder, taking a deep breath. This is another memory I want to preserve, right down to the comforting scent of his cologne.

"You know, that's weird and I notice every time you do it."

"Still don't know what you're talking about." And then I say, "are you okay with your dad meeting her?"

"Not really, but I guess I'll give him a chance for Amelia's sake. But one wrong move and I'm done."

I nod. "That's very big of you—and I have your back, just so you know."

"I did." He answers casually. "Ditto." he gazes down at me, grinning from ear to ear. "Did you find an apartment yet?"

I had been looking through every single listing I could find within my small budget. There's one I like, a nice one, and it isn't expensive as other places within that price range because I'd be splitting the cost with the girl who already lives there.

We had talked on the phone extensively. I told her about my situation, and she was very understanding. I explained that, while Amelia wouldn't get to leave the hospital anytime soon, she and I are a packaged deal. Thankfully, she agreed to meet with me and iron out the finer details.

"I think so."

"And the child development center?"

"I know I'll get the cost cut in half because of my scholarship, but I can't crunch the numbers until I schedule my classes. Are you prepared for basic training yet?"

"No—I just want to enjoy the time we have with each other now. I'll worry about all the other stuff later."

I'm not as confident as he seems to be. I'm not sure how any of our plans will work out or what the future will bring. It's frightening, but Damon makes a good point… we should just be content with the here and now, grateful that we have our whole lives ahead of us, that Amelia is getting stronger with each passing day.

That's not to say everything will end in a happily ever after for us, but at least we are together. If we stick together, whatever problems we face will be far less daunting.

We are a team, in good times or bad.

And just like that—it became Bonnie and Damon against the world.


End file.
